


Brotherly Loathing

by lindenmae



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindenmae/pseuds/lindenmae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU For this prompt on the kinkmeme.</p><p>Arthur has his life all planned out and he's steadily achieving each of his dreams. He has a good job at one of the best architecture firms in the area right out of college and the hottest, suavest, if slightly repressed, boyfriend he could have ever asked for. So what if his best friend hates his boyfriend and won't tell him why? So what if his boyfriend's twin brother is built like a brick house and hilarious and charming to boot? And so what if his boyfriend is so deep in the closet he couldn't find his way out with a flashlight? Arthur is positive he's on the right path until he realizes he doesn't have a clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brotherly Loathing

**Author's Note:**

> There are non-explicit and explicit sex scenes between Arthur and the OMC and infidelity. There are also a few incidents that occur pre-fic but are discussed within that might be triggery - teen pregnancy and figures of authority abusing their power.

Three weeks after graduation, Arthur has his first real interview at a real architecture firm where they design real buildings. He wears his best suit, slicks his hair back and puts on an air of confidence that he definitely, one hundred percent, mostly feels. He got the interview through connections and he’s not ashamed of that. That’s how the world works, but he’s not going to get the job just because his freshman dorm R.A’s father was a partner and maybe was his favorite professor and maybe the R.A. ended up being his best friend and works there too. He’s going to get the job on his own merit and he deserves it and he’s good enough for it, but he’s still freaking out inside.  
Arthur is great under pressure, but he gets nervous just like anyone, especially when his entire future is on the line. He’s sitting in the waiting room of the firm, waiting for his interviewer to call him in, repeating a mantra that sounds suspiciously like the jingle in the army commercials - something about being all that he can be - when the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen walks in, the light from a hallway window catching on his dark blonde hair, cut short and perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. He wears his suit like a model, each crease perfectly placed to elongate his legs and draw attention to the strength of his arms. Arthur does not have a suit fetish despite what many of his friends and relatives may think; he just appreciates a man who knows how to wear one, and this man- _oh boy _.__

 _  
_  
The man smiles when he catches Arthur looking and doesn’t push it when Arthur coughs in embarrassment and tries to cover up his infatuation by looking so hard in the other direction he nearly gives himself whiplash. Arthur feels the leather bench cushion dip down beside him and reluctantly turns back to face the gorgeous man who’s extending his hand. Arthur notices that his nails are clean and manicured, and then the man politely introduces himself, amiable. First name Charles, no last name, but Arthur’s too distracted by the thrill of arousal he suddenly feels at the low timbre of Charles’s voice to notice the omission and the accent- _oh god_. Charles is pretty and posh and _British_. Arthur is smitten from the get-go._   
__  
_

_  
_Arthur doesn’t get Charles’s number, but he manages to slip into conversation that he works at a jazz bar in the area just before he’s called in to his interview. By this point he feels like he’s floating, all of his nerves completely washed away in the wake of the attention he’d received from Charles the gorgeous man. When he sees that his interviewer is Dominic Cobb, he’s even more relieved, almost to the point that he begins berating himself for ever being nervous in the first place. He doesn’t know Cobb well, but he’d had some classes with him when they were both still in school and he knows for a fact that Cobb is so far head over heels for Mallorie Miles that it’s almost embarrassing. Arthur also knows that _Cobb_ knows that not giving him the job would be detrimental to that burgeoning love affair since Mal just so happens to be Arthur’s freshman dorm R.A. turned best friend forever.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_Arthur’s walking on sunshine for days afterward and he can’t stifle his smile when Charles comes through the door of the jazz bar where Arthur works the very next night and takes a seat right in front of Arthur at the bar. He’s still clean, perfectly put together, wearing a powder blue shirt that brings out the color of his eyes. Arthur’s stomach actually ties itself up in a knot when Charles smiles again, displaying perfect white teeth. Arthur finds himself grinning back, unabashed. Charles doesn’t even comment on his dimples. They talk all night except for the brief moments that Arthur is required to help other patrons or the longer moments when they pause to enjoy the music which, luckily for Charles, is live that night. The conversation between them is ridiculously smooth and easy and Arthur finds himself floating more and more as time flies because Charles is the perfect man. Arthur is about to get his dream job and his dream man and he couldn’t be more in love with life._   
__  
_

 

 _  
_A week later, Arthur receives the official call from the firm where he’d applied and finds out that he’s the newest employee of Miles, Saito, and Eames. Then he receives the unofficial call from Mal and he can feel her smile radiating through the phone. She demands that they go out to celebrate and by unspoken agreement it is decided they’ll meet at the bar which doesn’t bother Arthur at all even though it’s his day off, because he can walk there and he intends to take full advantage of his comp tab.  
He’s already there, posted at the bar, and chatting away with Ariadne when Mal arrives. Ariadne is another bartender and subsequently one of Arthur’s favorite people because she’s also in architecture. They used to commiserate about their classes and professors and Arthur would let her look over his coursework from previous semesters, since she was a year behind him. She’s a little put out about being left behind as he goes on to fulfill all of his dreams, but when he starts talking about Charles she’s all ears. It’s not that there’s really that much to say yet, because at this point it’s only been a week, but in that week they have managed to exchange numbers and go on four sort-of dates, if he counts the nights that Charles comes into the bar –which he does because he can. The one possible problem is that Arthur still hasn’t gotten Charles’s last name.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_Ariadne makes a face at that, but Arthur is saved from having to pretend that he doesn’t care by Mal sweeping in through the door, Dom Cobb trailing behind her like a besotted puppy. Arthur stands and envelops Mal in a hug and holds out his hand for Cobb to shake. Cobb just kind of shrugs and bats Arthur’s hand away and pulls him into a sort of one armed awkward thing that Arthur hopes never happens again._   
_

_  
_  
_   
_

_  
_“We’re a team now, there’s no point in being overly formal,” Dom says and Arthur can appreciate that as long as there’s no more hugging involved.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_They all slide onto stools at the bar and give Ariadne their orders - Stella for Dom and the house merlot for Mal. The thing about the bar is it’s not very big, so Ariadne doesn’t actually have to go anywhere to get their drinks. She fixes them both with a pointed stare while she’s pouring.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“I hope when I graduate you guys are going to pull the same strings to get me a job that you did for Arthur.” She’s only half-joking and it’s obvious, and while Dom gets uncomfortable, Mal just waves the accusation off.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“We will not need to pull strings for you,” she says smiling, and Ariadne looks satisfied and Arthur is satisfied until he registers the hidden insult.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“Hey!” Ariadne looks smugly in his direction and he starts laughing because he’s way too happy to be put off by anything tonight.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“So Arthur, is Charles coming by tonight? I can’t believe you’ve managed to hide him from me for a whole week. You’re never this sneaky.” Ariadne looks at him through her lashes as she idly wipes down the bar surface, a smirk playing about her mouth. He blushes and looks down into his wine, as if that’ll hide it.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“Ariadne…”  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“Charles? Arthur, how could you get a new boyfriend and hide it from _me_?” Mal holds a hand up to her chest like she’s incredibly offended.  
Arthur’s blush deepens to the point he’s sure he matches the burgundy carpet.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“He’s not my boyfriend, Mal. Calm down,” he mutters.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“Not yet,” Ariadne sing songs. “But really, he doesn’t even know the guy’s last name.”  
_   
_

 

 _  
_Mal’s eyes widen comically, Dom watching the entire thing from by her side with a bemused smile on his face, because there is clearly some sort of inside joke about to be revived and he’s not a part of it.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“No? But Arthur, without his last name how can you search him on Google or stalk him on Facebook, and Myspace, and Match.com, and Monster.com-“  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“Or have your brother-in-law run a background check on him?” Ariadne interjects before Mal can name off every website that any person has ever used.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“ _One time_ ,” Arthur groans, laying his forehead on the bar top with an audible thump. “One time, I take advantage of my brother-in-law being a cop.”  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“I guess we should probably give that one to you though. Nash was pretty shady.” Ariadne starts to pet the back of his head like she actually feels any sympathy for him.  
_   
_

 

 _  
_“Andrew Nash? I know him!” Dom pipes up from Mal’s side, sounding way too excited to finally have something to contribute to the conversation._   
_

_  
_  
“Oh my God,” Arthur moans against the bar._   
_

_  
_  
“Didn’t he get put on academic probation our junior year for cheating and then kicked out for trying to bribe the Dean to get off of it?”_   
_

_  
_  
Mal pats his arm and leans into him, whispering something in his ear about Arthur being sensitive about the subject, which is _not true_. Nash’s public indecency charge from his freshman year had turned Arthur off way before the Dean incident._   
_

_  
_  
“Oh sorry, man.”_   
_

_  
_  
“Guys, can we get back to celebrating my life changing accomplishment now? _Please_?”_   
_

_  
_  
“Yes, of course we can, Arthur,” Mal says soothingly, patting his knee beneath the bar. “Where did you meet this mysterious Charles?”_   
_

_  
_  
“Charles is not my life changing accomplishment!”_   
_

_  
_  
“Well, I suppose I should be grateful for that. Wouldn’t want to get a big head.”_   
_

_  
_  
The air escapes Arthur in a slow whine, a lot like a deflating balloon, and his knuckles go white around the stem of his wine glass. Of course that would be when Charles walks in, because apparently Arthur's life is now a situational comedy._   
_

_  
_  
“I am going to kill all of you,” he whispers, as he slowly turns around and plasters a grimace that isn’t really passing for a smile on his face._   
_

_  
_  
Dom starts to object, but Arthur shuts him up with a quick glare. “Even you, Dom. We’re a team now, _remember_?”_   
_

_  
_  
…_   
_

_  
_  
Arthur did his research before he applied at Miles, Saito, and Eames. Mal may make fun of him for using the internet to his advantage when it comes to potential boyfriends, but he’s pretty sure it’s only practical. Mal’s a romantic and she tends to like to live life on the wind, believing that magic happens every second, but Arthur likes plans. Arthur likes to know what he’s getting himself into so that he’s better able to get out of it when he needs to. He’s pretty sure Nash is a perfect example of why this method works._   
_

_  
_  
Doing background searches on the people he interacts with could be considered a bit much, but knowing the facts about a future employer is just good sense. Because of Mal, Arthur already knew that Stephen Miles had first met Aleister Eames when they were schoolboys. Miles had gone to university in France while Eames had stayed in England, but they’d kept in touch. Eventually they’d both come to California when Mal was just beginning high school and they’d opened the firm with Eames's hefty inheritance from his father’s, Paddington Winthrop Eames II, considerable estate. Hayato Saito was the youngest of the partners, bringing with him a distinct style, nostalgic of Marco Polo’s Orient. Arthur, though he preferred Eames’s tendency towards post-modern European touches, was very much a fan of Saito’s elegant slopes and traditional detailing._   
_

_  
_  
The one thing that Arthur had somehow missed in four years of him and Mal being nearly inseparable and the entire night he’d stayed awake before submitting his resume, scouring the source section of the firm’s Wikipedia page, was that Eames had also had children. The way Mal’s eyes widen when she turns to see Charles striding toward their group and then narrow when she turns her gaze on Arthur immediately leaves him feeling wary. Charles gives the entire group a smile worthy of a Crest commercial and goes straight to Mal and Dom._   
_

_  
_  
“Mallorie! And Dominic, very good to see you outside the office. I’m always telling Father that you work far too hard.”_   
_

_  
_  
Charles shakes Dom’s hand and claps him on the back before bending- because she’s being stubborn and won’t get up- to kiss each of Mal’s cheeks._   
_

_  
_  
“Charlie,” Mal says, returning the gesture halfheartedly. “I did not know _you_ were Arthur’s mysterious Charles. Tell me, how do you come to know our Arthur?”_   
_

_  
_  
Charles flinches only slightly at the nickname, but then he’s sitting down next to Arthur and Arthur gets distracted by the way Charles’s hips swivel as he walks and then the way his slate gray slacks go taut against his ass when he sits. Arthur takes a long swallow of his wine to mask the fact that he’s probably drooling and then beams at Charles, pointedly turning his head so that he can’t see Mal’s baffling, accusatory stare._   
_

_  
_  
“Oh, so he’s _your_ Arthur, is he? Well, you must forgive me Mal, darling, for stepping on your toes, but would it trouble you so greatly to share him?” Charles punctuates his statement by curling his hand over Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur does his best not to melt into a puddle of rainbows and unicorns._   
_

_  
_  
Ariadne makes googly eyes at Charles for the first few minutes after he sits down, which mostly makes up for Mal’s weird reaction, until he requests she go find an oddly specific year and brand of Pinot Noir that Arthur’s not even sure they have. Arthur’s pretty sure the oldest bottle he’s managed to turn up was a ninety-five, but he doesn’t think it’s odd that Charles knows what he wants, he thinks it’s classy. He thinks Charles is the kind of man who will go on weekend wine tasting trips to Temecula and maybe week long trips to Napa. Arthur might very well be powering through his second glass of wine in an effort to calm his nerves and therefore feeling just a tinsy bit fuzzy and Mal-like, thinking about romantic weekends with a man he’s just met, but then he starts pondering Paris and there’s no turning back.  
Ariadne comes back nearly ten minutes later with a dusty, dark bottle, looking apologetic._   
_

_  
_  
“It’s a ’94. It’s a Pinot but it’s not the same brand you wanted. Honestly, we’re not that high end of an establishment. I seriously doubt there’s anything back there that was made before I turned five.”_   
_

_  
_  
Charles grimaces slightly, but it quickly morphs into a gracious smile._   
_

_  
_  
“I was only thinking of something that Arthur might enjoy. I’m sure what you’ve brought, dear Ariadne, will easily suffice.”_   
_

_  
_  
Ariadne is back to making eyes at him the second the first word comes out of his mouth. Arthur has an intensely immature urge to kick her in the shin, but the bar is blocking him. He settles for crowding a little further into Charles’s space and smirking at her over his wine glass._   
_

_  
_  
They have a few more drinks in the restaurant, until Ariadne’s mid-shift ends and she demands they go to the back where Yusuf, another bartender, has somehow convinced the owners to let him open up his own mixology bar. The second bar, despite Arthur’s dour predictions, does incredibly well for itself, even if Arthur still thinks sticking a rose petal in a shot and telling drunk girls it’s the flower that makes the drink is still a load of it. One of Arthur’s favorite moments had been when a potential victim had stared at the shot, then at Yusuf, then back at the shot before pushing it away and asking for a beer. Yusuf seems to believe that some people just aren’t ready to embrace his mixing magic. Arthur thinks the girl just wasn’t drunk enough yet._   
_

_  
_  
Even Arthur can admit that some of the things that Yusuf comes up with are impressive, though. He’s fond of the drinks that are mixed with liquid nitrogen, not because they taste fantastic, but more the bright colors and the fog coming off of his drink reminds him of the brews he used to create with his Doctor Dreadful Drink Lab. It’s more nostalgia than anything else._   
_

_  
_  
Charles seems about as amused with the entire setup as Arthur usually feels and Dom just looks confused, but Mal and Ariadne begin eagerly discussing the menu, both choosing drinks that sound entirely too fruity. Arthur knows they do this just to watch Yusuf work. Because, on top of creating drinks with names that Arthur can’t pronounce, he’s also a competitive trick bartender and he’s pretty amazing. With Mal and Ariadne and Dom all distracted, Arthur gets to focus entirely on Charles, who has been admirably polite and just as charming as ever, despite Mal’s obvious hostility._   
_

_  
_  
“I’m sorry about Mal,” he says quietly, the alcohol in his system making him bold enough to lightly rest his hand on Charles’s knee. “I don’t know what her deal is.”  
Charles just smiles that Crest clean smile back at him. “Don’t worry over it, Arthur. Mal is a family friend, practically my sister. I’m sure she’s just jealous to have competition for your affections. And I can’t say I blame her.”_   
_

_  
_  
Arthur flushes and ducks his head and then realizes that he’s acting like a little girl, so he snaps his head back up and stares Charles directly in the eye. “There’s no competition.”_   
_

_  
_  
Then he dies inside of mortification because that’s the sappiest thing that’s ever come out of his mouth _ever_.  Charles doesn’t seem to mind it though, if the thumb he’s using to rub the back of Arthur’s neck is any indication._   
_

_  
_  
“Walk me out?” He leans forward and whispers in Arthur’s ear and Arthur shivers through the disappointment. Charles must see some of the dejection in Arthur’s face, though. “I’m afraid this just isn’t my type of hangout and I’ve an early day tomorrow. You understand, don’t you?”_   
_

_  
_  
Arthur nods and slips out of his seat and starts heading to the patio, Charles right behind him with one hand splayed open across his lower back. They’re out of sight and not quite to the curb when Charles stops and turns Arthur to face him, smiling brilliantly._   
_

_  
_  
“Maybe next time we can do this just the two of us. Would you like that?”_   
_

_  
_  
Arthur swallows and allows himself to be pressed into Charles’s body where he fits pretty well. They’re almost of height and both slim and smartly dressed. Arthur wishes that for a moment he could have an out of body experience just so he can see for himself how good they must look together._   
_

_  
_  
“I think I’d like that very much,” he says confidently and something in Charles’s eyes sparkle as he leans down and kisses Arthur._   
_

_  
_  
Arthur waits for Charles to get in his car and offers a little wave as he drives away, before putting his fingertips to his tingling lips and smiling like an idiot. He trips no less than three times as he makes his way back through the patio to the bar. He can’t stop smiling and giggling to himself and he has just enough sense to think that it’s a good thing that he works here otherwise Yusuf would be likely to cut him off and have him thrown out._   
_

_  
_  
When he gets back to the bar, Mal has switched seats with Dom and is staring at the doorway like she wishes she could shoot lasers from her eyes. Arthur almost wants to double back and hide in the bathroom for a few days, but he doesn't do it, because that would be cowardly and unsanitary._   
_

_  
_  
“Charles Eames, Arthur? _He_ is your wonderful Charles?”_   
_

_  
_  
“Um, yes? I mean, okay, I get it, he works at the firm and he's a partner's son and that could be bad but I didn’t know that when we first started talking! I thought he was there for the interview just like I was!”_   
_

_  
_  
Mal just looks sad, which Arthur doesn’t understand. If she were really so against inter-office relationships, he’d be able to point out that she would also be the biggest hypocrite in the world, because he sees how high her hand is on Dom’s thigh under the bar._   
_

_  
_  
“I simply do not think he is good for you.”_   
_

_  
_  
“Mal, he practically _is_ me, except that he’s British. He’s the British me. We’re going to be the best couple ever.”_   
_

_  
_  
“Arthur, you sound like Mal. This really must be love.” Ariadne starts giggling into her drink, snorting once before she claps a hand over her mouth and starts looking around to see if anyone noticed._   
_

_  
_  
“I didn’t know he was an Eames, I swear, but Mal, he said you were practically like brother and sister. I don’t understand why you hate him so much.”  
Mal huffs and purses her lips. “Obviously, I do not hate him. I simply think you could do better.”_   
_

_  
_  
“Charles told me this story about how when they were kids, one time Mal tried to get Charles to fake marry her and he wouldn’t because he was pretty sure she had cooties, and she’s never forgiven him for it. Maybe that’s what’s up her butt.”_   
_

_  
_  
“Dominic!” Mal looks scandalized and then it sort of dawns on Dom what he’s said._   
_

_  
_  
_   
_

_  
_“Shit, sorry.”_   
_

_  
_  
“It was not Charles I wanted to marry, anyway. I was marrying Paddy and we only wanted Charlie to be the best man and he refused because he was jealous. Those things they say about twins being the best of friends are absolutely not true. Charlie was awful to Paddy all our lives.”_   
_

_  
_  
The mentioning of twins sparks something in Arthur and he perks up, listening raptly. “Twins? There are two Charleses?”_   
_

_  
_  
“No, there is one Charles and there is a Paddy. I cannot stop you from dating Charles, Arthur, but I just hope you’ll be careful. It would break my own heart to see you get yours broken.”_   
_

_  
_  
“You’re being melodramatic, Mal,” he says but he smiles and hugs her anyway._   
_

_  
_  
…_   
_

_  
_  
“Dom, what are these?”_   
_

_  
_  
Dom looks up from his desk where he’s been sketching the entire morning when Arthur stops in the doorway to his office. Arthur brandishes a set of blueprints that he’d found on his own desk, in his cubicle, when he’d returned from getting someone else coffee for the fourth time that day._   
_

_  
_  
Dom squints at him. Arthur and Mal have been trying to convince him to get his eyes checked for weeks now, but he steadfastly insists that his eyes are fine. “They’re building plans… for a building, because that’s what we do here. We design buildings.”_   
_

_  
_  
Arthur resists the urge to grind his teeth and strides forward, dumping the plans over Dom’s sketches._   
_

_  
_  
“That’s not a building, Dom. That’s a monstrosity.”_   
_

_  
_  
Dom drops his squint to the plans, smoothing them out with his hand, and then looks back up at Arthur._   
_

_  
_  
“It’s a mini-mansion. I put these on your desk myself half an hour ago.”_   
_

_  
_  
“I know it’s a mini-mansion, Dom! Why are you dumping the plans for a mini-mansion on _my desk_?”_   
_

_  
_  
_   
_

Arthur’s head is starting to ache. After almost two months of working at the firm, he’s still sure that there has to be a simpler way to do things with Dom, but he’s yet to figure out what it is.

  
“Um, because I’m putting you in charge of the project. I have a meeting with Saito later. I think he’s got something big for us and if we want it, I’m going to have to put all of my focus into impressing him. So, for now, this project’s yours.” Dom starts to roll the plans back up as if the conversation is over just like that.

  
“But I don’t want it.”

  
Dom sighs and holds the plans back out for Arthur to take. When he doesn’t, Dom shakes them a little and then jabs them in Arthur’s direction like a foil.

  
“Arthur, seriously.” Dom starts to scowl and Arthur sighs in exasperation and takes the plans back. “Believe it or not, Arthur, this is a step up. I know it’s a mini-mansion but it’s _your_ mini-mansion.”

  
“But you drew these.”

  
“They’re rough drafts. You can still put your own mark on them. Arthur, come on, everyone’s gotta start somewhere, right? If we get this account with Saito, everything will change. We won’t be at the bottom of the food chain anymore. People will stop asking you to get them their coffee! You’ll be by my side the whole way. You just gotta do this one thing for me, okay? It’s just one house. It’s easy, cookie cutter.”

  
Dom’s eyes are really blue and he’s got the magical ability to make them look even bluer when he’s being earnest. Arthur hates him for it. He brandishes the blueprints at Dom like a weapon, but Dom doesn’t even flinch. This isn’t the first time that Arthur’s threatened him with slow death by paper cut.  
“You’re better than this, Dom.” He starts to walk out the door, but Dom stops him with a quick grunt. He scribbles an address down on a fluorescent pink post-it and hands it off. When he glances up and sees Arthur’s death glare, he has the gall to look surprised.

  
“What? Arthur, _the meeting_. And it’s on your way back from the site.”

  
Arthur crumples the post-it but stuffs it in his pocket because Dom’s his friend and Dom gave him this job and he should be grateful… he _should_ be.  
He runs a hand over his hair and adjusts the knot of his tie, the blueprints stuffed under one arm, as he exits Dom’s office, then turns down the hallway and back toward his cubicle. Coming toward him are a giggling Mal hanging onto the arm of an older man that looks so much like Charles, he can only be Aleister Eames. He’s smiling fondly down at Mal and neither of them see him right away. Arthur’s heart stops beating for what feels like an eternity as he tries to figure out a getaway route that will keep it that way. He doesn’t want to meet the senior partner with plans for a mini-mansion under his arm, forget the part about said partner being his boyfriend’s father.  
He makes a last second decision to duck back into Dom’s office if he has to, but before he can even move, he hears Mal’s voice ring out like a bell in the empty hallway.

  
“Arthur! Arthur, come here!”

  
Arthur makes a face at the wall before reluctantly turning to face them. Mal drops Aleister’s arm to grab Arthur’s face with both hands and peck him on the lips. “Uncle Aleister, this is Arthur Levine.”

  
Aleister holds out his hand to shake, and Arthur quickly wipes his hand on his trousers to get rid of any pomade that might still be on his skin before he remembers that he wore the cream suit today because he has dinner plans with Charles and it makes his ass look fantastic, and _fuck_ he shouldn’t be thinking about Charles and asses when he’s meeting the man’s father for the first time. Somehow he manages a smile and grips Aleister’s hand firmly, but not _too_ firmly, just enough to show confidence but not overbearing.

  
Aleister doesn’t show any indication of having noticed Arthur’s internal battle. “Very good to meet you, Arthur. Both my dear Mallorie here and my son have not stopped raving about you since you began working here. I was beginning to think you were too good to be true.”

  
Arthur takes his hand back when Aleister releases it and does his best not to blush.

  
“Thank you, sir. I’m just grateful for the opportunity to work here.”

  
“Oh posh. There’s no need to suck up to me, Arthur. I’m just an old man who gets bored too easily to retire. If I didn’t come here every day I’d end up wasting the hours and probably all of my money gambling with my other son, and I can assure you my wife won’t be having that. He’s the black sheep of the family, but he can get the good contraband Cubans, so I keep him around anyway.” Aleister winks conspiratorially at Arthur and Mal playfully slaps his arm.

  
“Uncle Aleister! Don’t talk about Paddy like that.”

  
Aleister laughs and kisses the top of her head. “Now, now, darling, you know I don’t really think of the boy that way. He’s going to be a free spirit and there’s nothing to be done about it. Besides, I’ve got Charles to carry on the family name. Paddy’s free to be the prodigal son for as long as he likes.”

  
Arthur’s chest clenches when Aleister mentions Charles carrying on the family name. He’s sure the man must mean the company, but it starts an itch deep inside him that he can’t quite scratch without embarrassing himself in front of Charles. It’s too soon in their relationship for Arthur to start demanding that they come out. He forces himself to keep smiling as they all make proper small talk and then give their excuses for needing to carry on their separate ways. Arthur notices that Aleister seems looser, friendlier in person than in all of the pictures that Arthur’s seen. He doesn’t have the same rigid posture as Charles, and when he smiles, Arthur notices that he doesn’t have the perfect teeth either.

  
When he’s finally past them, Arthur gives himself a mental shake and a pat on the back for not doing anything stupid. He almost doesn’t notice Charles leaning against the doorway of his office until he’s almost on him.

  
“Oh! Hi.” Arthur’s smile gets wider and a little molten as he pauses on his way back to his desk. Something suspicious flashes in Charles’s eyes, but it’s gone before Arthur can put a finger on it and he’s back to blinding innocent bystanders with his pearly whites.

  
“Where are you off to in such a hurry, hmm?”

  
Arthur’s happy bubble deflates a little as he remembers the plans he’s carrying. “Dom wants me to go check out a site for him. It’s nothing big, just tearing down an existing house and building a new one.”

  
Charles glances around the hallway before reaching to run his thumb along Arthur’s jaw. “You don’t look very excited about it.”

  
Arthur shrugs to distract himself from the army of butterflies rioting in his stomach at the touch. “Would _you_ be excited about another mini-mansion in the suburbs?”

  
Charles gives him a sympathetic frown and then smiles. “I don’t suppose it would cause too much trouble if I took my lunch now. If you’d like some company on your trip?”

  
Arthur can’t stop himself from grinning as he leads the way to his desk to grab his jacket and keys. He knows he doesn’t imagine the way Charles’s gaze lingers on his ass as he walks.

  
…

  
The house at the address on the plans is cute. That’s really the best way to describe it. It’s small but not tiny, proportional to the size of the plot that it sits on. It’s a sweet little gingerbread style house that looks like it’s been there for the better part of the century. It’s original to the area. Arthur doesn’t want to be part of tearing it down and replacing it with Dom’s stucco eyesore. He says as much to Charles, who regards him thoughtfully.

  
“I never took you for the nostalgic type, Arthur.”

  
Arthur sighs and turns away from the little house and the sign on the fence advertising the firm. “I’m not, I just… sometimes a little history’s a good thing. In a few more years this whole area won’t look anything like it did a century ago.”

  
Charles chuckles and lays a warm hand on his shoulder. “A century before that, this entire area was orange groves. There’s no modernization without innovation. Things have to change.”

  
“I know that, I do. I’m all about modernization. This house,” he waves his hand at the gingerbread, “is not what I want to do. It just makes me sad to see so much history thrown over and forgotten for a tiny chance at luxury. This house has a story… and a yard. The house we replace it with won’t have either of those things. Sometimes architecture is like fashion. Some things are timeless and other things make comebacks decades later.”

  
“Well, based on your dashing sartorial choices, I assume you’re only referring those fashion trends that deserve comebacks.” He openly lets his gaze wander over Arthur's body and Arthur laughs.

  
“I wouldn’t mind it if the ascot made a comeback. And you’d look pretty dashing with a nice pair of mutton chops.”

  
Charles smirks at him and squeezes his shoulder before dropping his hand.

  
“Don’t get your hopes up there.”

  
“Too bad.” Arthur checks his watch as he’s unlocking the car and grumbles. “Hey, do you mind if we make a quick stop on our way back to the office? I’ve got to run an errand for Dom.”

  
Charles arches a brown as he slides into the passenger seat. “And what kind of errand is it that Dominic can’t do it himself?”

  
“He needs me to pick up some vintage model train set he’s put on hold at an antique store. He’s got a meeting with Saito so he can’t do it.”

  
Arthur notices a dark look pass over Charles’s face from the corner of his eye, but when he looks fully, it’s gone and he can’t be sure he didn’t imagine it.

  
“May I ask what antique store it is?” Charles’s words are clipped, but he’s still smiling so Arthur just shrugs and starts the car.

  
“Forger Antiques. Kind of a weird name. I’d be worried that everything in there was fake, myself.”

  
Charles’s smile falters for a second. “Tell you what, Arthur, how about I get Tadashi to run Dom’s little errand for him and you and I go get a proper lunch? These kinds of things are what interns are for, aren’t they?”

  
Arthur lets the intern comment go because Charles is already pulling out his phone and his stomach has decided at that moment to begin growling with the force of a small lion.

  
“That’d be great. Let’s do that.”

  
Charles beams at him as he puts the phone up to his ear. “Perfect.”

  
…

  
Residential buildings, houses specifically, are not why Arthur loves architecture. He can appreciate them and the way the home has evolved over time, but they don’t inspire him. Arthur is truly convinced that he is meant for greater things. He is preoccupied by a love for clean lines and spatial arrangements that just can’t be kept up in a place where someone actually lives, unless that someone is a robot, and Arthur is not inherently worried about a future where the robots rule all. He’s confident in at least the fact that he’ll probably be dead before the robots rise up. Apartment buildings are better, but they’re still not where he’d like to be putting his focus. Arthur is meant for functional buildings, for skyscrapers. He wants to be the mastermind behind the next building to kiss the clouds and he knows he could find a way to do it that no one has before. He has _ideas_ and no one is giving him the chance to give them life.

  
This is probably why he has such an irrational hatred for the mini-mansion project, which he has affectionately dubbed “The Waste of My Time”. He knows he’s new and that he should be grateful that he’s getting to head anything at all and not just getting paid to essentially do his internship all over again, but he can’t help but resent Dom just a little bit for dumping this off on him. The building isn’t his design and the owners don’t want to hear anything he has to say. He’s getting paid to do little more than make sure the contractor makes sure his workers follow the plans. It’s tedious and frustrating and not the way Arthur wants to kick off his career.

  
To top it all off, Dom hasn’t told Arthur anything about his secretive meeting with Saito or any of the others that have come after it, despite all of his blustering about them being a team and being in this together. He just saddled Arthur with a job he didn’t want to do at the first chance of something better. It does not help Arthur’s frustrations to know that he would have done exactly the same thing, himself. He can’t even complain to Mal about it because she’s dating the guy and even a hint of criticism against Dom will immediately wrench open the flood gates regarding Charles. They’re still in the ‘agree to disagree’ stage, tentatively pretending to be happy for each other even though they’re obviously not. Except that Arthur really is happy for Mal and genuinely does like Dom when he’s not being a shifty bastard.

  
Arthur knows that Mal’s idea of love is different from his; that she grew up believing whole-heartedly that one day her prince would come. Arthur has not felt that way since the day that he realized he was significantly more interested in the other princes than any damsel in distress. He doesn’t need a relationship that overwhelms him and he doesn’t need to feel like the whole focus of his universe should be anyone other than himself. It’s _his_ universe and he doesn’t understand why anyone else should be in command of it. That’s why he does his background checks- he is in control of the majority of the things that will happen to him in his life and he likes to be prepared. It’s fine for Mal to want to be swept off her feet and carried over the threshold, but he doesn’t want that and Mal just can’t understand.

  
Arthur’s relationship with Charles is simple and it works and he’s happy with it. He likes Charles, can even see himself loving Charles, maybe, sometime in the future. Charles makes his heart beat faster, makes him smile, and is always a perfect gentleman. They go out on actual dates to nice places and they have companionable conversation that often tends toward intellectual topics, which Arthur finds stimulating, if not a little mundane at times. But Arthur is okay with mundane because it doesn’t hurt and it doesn’t distract and if he gets a little tired of listening to the actual words coming out of Charles’s mouth, he can just zone out and focus on his lips moving instead, which is just as pleasant, sometimes more so.

  
The only downside might be that Arthur has never been in a relationship and been this horny at the same time, because in all of his other relationships there had been sex involved. Arthur is loath to give Mal any more ammo against him being with Charles, so when they get together over a bottle of wine or two or four- a ritual that they seem to be practicing less and less these days- Arthur lets her gush about Dom and their future, the house they’re going to design together and the baby names she’s already picked out but hasn’t told Dom about yet because she hasn’t even told Dom about these non-existent future babies yet. Arthur is sure that Dom will be more concerned about naming his unborn daughter Phillipa than he will be about the fact that he even has an unborn daughter in the planning stages. Dom is so far over the moon for Mal that she can get away with obsessing over her relationship like a thirteen year old girl. Arthur knows the day is imminent that he’ll be standing in a jewelry store watching Dom squint at ring prices like if they’re blurry and he can’t read them they’ll magically go down.

  
Mal cares for him and she wants him to be happy, but she refuses to give way even one inch in her dislike of Charles and if she knew that their sex life is only slightly better than the one Arthur maintained in high school, only better because unlike Brock Marshall and Terry Johanssen and Kyle Pritchett and Lucy Arminston that one time because he was drunk and she was convinced that if he actually touched a boob he’d magically not be gay anymore, Charles knows what lube is and how to use his tongue. Arthur knows there are couples out there where this is all that’s necessary, but he’s never been a part of one of those kinds of couples and he’s having trouble adjusting. He likes penetration, but there are alternative methods that would also be satisfying, there just never seems to be an appropriate time to start that particular conversation.  
Four months into the relationship, Arthur thinks maybe he should have found one by now, but he can’t tell Mal and he absolutely doesn’t want to talk to Dom about it and between his work and her schooling, he just doesn’t see Ariadne as often as he used to, so he tries not to dwell. It’s easy to get distracted by the good parts, like accidentally overhearing Charles on an international phone call and learning that he speaks impeccable French, or the walking wet dream that is Charles every day in a suit, or Charles in his gym clothes, or swim trunks, or Charles in anything at all. Arthur is very happy in his relationship and if things aren’t perfect just yet, he has confidence they’ll get there. This is why, when the dam breaks, Arthur is actually taken by surprise.

  
…

  
Arthur likes to think he’s classy, at least as classy as a twenty-two year old kid from Southern California can be. He actually _likes_ jazz and he likes dressing nicely and he really would rather read the book than wait for the movie. He holds doors and pulls out chairs and if he ever had to ride the bus, he would give up his seat for pregnant women and old ladies without a second thought. He is a gentleman, but that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate the finer points of a dive bar, namely the two dollar pints and the endless supply of entertainment that is drunken people with access to a karaoke machine. So when his birthday comes around, he’s looking forward to it. Working a nine- to -five that usually ends up being something more like nine-to-nine-sometimes-ten is a little rougher than he’d initially imagined it would be, and there are nights he goes home thinking a two dollar beer sounds like the best thing in the world.

  
Every year since he turned twenty one, and one year before that when Mal got him a fake I.D. that looked absolutely nothing like him, they’ve gone to the same bar on both of their birthdays. It’s small and smells like sweat and cigarette smoke, but it has a pool table and a karaoke machine and, for some reason, a giant aquarium full of exotic sea life that Arthur has a tendency to become mesmerized by when he’s had one too many.

  
By the time his birthday is in sight, Arthur is actively looking forward to it. It’s on a Friday, so he has no reason not to get absolutely obliterated, except maybe not embarrassing himself, and, like the jazz bar he used to work at, it’s in walking distance to his apartment. Also, that new cupcake place just opened up, and he’s pretty sure it goes without saying that Mal will get him an assortment and will have them waiting for him at the bar. The cupcakes alone are something to look forward to. They were featured on the Food Network so he knows they’re going to be like an orgasm in his mouth.

  
Arthur knows this is the plan because this has been the plan twice a year for three years. It is always the same bar and there are always baked goods involved. There is no reason for any of this to change and Arthur goes into the week confident that Friday is to be looked forward to. He doesn’t really think of mentioning anything to Charles, not wanting to sound like he’s fishing for anything special and assuming that since it is Mal’s duty to plan it, she’ll tell him. So he’s reasonably surprised when, on Wednesday, Charles presents him with tickets to the opening of a new art exhibit downtown…on Friday.

  
“For your birthday,” Charles says, shaking the tickets a little as if their lack of movement is why Arthur’s not jumping up and down with excitement.

  
“This is great, Charles, really-“

  
“But?”

  
Arthur feels a little flare of anger start burning in his chest, because either Mal deliberately chose not to invite Charles to the party or she isn’t even planning it, and both options suck supremely.

  
“Mal and I do the same thing every year on our birthdays. Anyone’s invited, but it’s kind of a tradition for the two of us. She didn’t tell you?”

  
Charles looks perplexed for an instant, but then he smiles and waves the hand still holding the tickets as if brushing away an irritating thought.

  
“About your little bar party? Well, she did mention it, but I’m afraid I didn’t realize the importance. I was so hoping that you and I could have some time alone on Friday evening.”

  
Arthur doesn’t want to think about what he hopes Charles might be implying because it really wouldn’t do for him to get hard in the middle of work, even if they are in Charles’s office and the door is closed.

  
“I’d really love to go to this, it’s just, I can’t bail on her. She’d be furious.”

  
Charles nods in grave sympathy. “Oh, of course not. Hell hath no fury and all that, especially that one. Perhaps we could do both? It’s just that I was given these tickets by a client and now I am essentially obligated to make an appearance. I was hoping you’d be willing to accompany me in case it is truly awful.”

  
Charles leans into Arthur’s space, smelling of pheromones and the lightest whiff of Chanel Pour Monsieur, and Arthur has to focus not to lose track of what they’re even talking about. “You really think we could make it back in time for the party?”

  
Charles just smiles and, with a quick glance to make sure the door is still closed and locked, leans in to kiss Arthur soundly. It distracts Arthur enough to end the conversation but leaves him with the unfortunate task of letting Mal know that the party isn’t his first priority. She scowls at him and Arthur knows that she’s itching to say something scathing about Charles, but she holds her tongue and for that at least, he’s grateful.

  
…

  
Arthur’s grateful for Mal’s tight-lipped acceptance of his birthday plans until he and Charles have been there for an hour and then he starts to wish that she'd pitched a fit and convinced him not to come. That hour has been more than enough time for Arthur to figure out that it was boring in the beginning and it’s not going to get any better. He’s on his third glass of wine and fingering his cell phone in his pocket, trying to figure out a polite way to separate Charles from the two men he’s been talking to, and Arthur’s been pretending to listen to, for the last half hour. It took half an hour for them to peruse the artwork and Charles had started to ask Arthur what he thought of the pieces when his two new companions had interrupted. Charles had introduced Arthur as his “associate”, which wouldn’t normally have bothered him, except for the way the younger of the men held Charles’s gaze and gripped his hand just a little too long to be proper.

 

Robert Fischer is pretty like a porcelain doll and Arthur kind of hates him for it. He’s tall, taller than Arthur, and slim and his voice is soft and almost melodic. He’s with hisgodfather, Peter Browning, and they both make the initial, obligatory pleasantries with Arthur before focusing entirely on Charles. Arthur doesn’t need to listen to the conversation to know that Robert Fischer isn’t just another acquaintance, and is probably the “client” that gave Charles the tickets, since he doesn’t seem to be interested in anyone else in the room. Robert Fischer is the heir to Fischer-Morrow, one of the biggest construction companies in the country, and Arthur’s spending his birthday being ignored by him.

  
Arthur waits fifteen more minutes, pretending to listen and nodding in all the right places, before he excuses himself to deaf ears and feigns a phone call. It’s nearing nine, still plenty of time to get back into town and to the bar before Mal can start to get upset, but Arthur’s getting antsy, mostly because he’s bored and feeling petulant about having to share his boyfriend on his birthday. It doesn’t help that Charles hasn’t even glanced over at him once. He can’t think of a way to interrupt their conversation and let Charles know that he’d like to leave without coming off as abrasive, so he chooses to sulk in the corner and wait for Charles to realize that he isn’t coming back. It takes almost another full glass of wine and an impatient text. but Charles finally gets it and then he sucks Arthur off in the car before they leave in the way of an apology and Arthur can't find it in himself to stay mad.

  
It’s nearing eleven by the time they pull into the bar’s parking lot. It’s already filled with cars and there are a few people smoking out front. Arthur would almost laugh at the horrified look on Charles’s face if he wasn’t already so cranky.

  
“You don’t have to come in,” he says, turning in his seat.

  
“Oh, but Arthur, I want to.” But he doesn’t and Arthur does smile a little bit at the way he’s at least trying. Arthur wants Charles to come in and he’s a little bit drunk so he wants Charles’s arm around him, and he wants Charles to act as a buffer between him and Mal, who is definitely furious. Arthur knows because there have been no calls and no texts and with Mal, _that_ is a bad sign.

  
“No, no. It’s alright," he plays with Charles fingers as he talks, not wanting him to see the disappointment that's probably glaringly evident in his expression. He won't have fun if Charles isn't having fun, so it's probably best this way. "I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  
Charles is visibly relieved and it hurts just a little, but Arthur knows that it isn’t him, that it’s the bar and the atmosphere, but it’s something Arthur likes and it would be nice if Charles could like it too. Charles promises to call and kisses the back of Arthur's hand as he's getting out of the car and Arthur figures he has to be happy with that.  
Arthur’s shoulders are just the slightest bit slumped as he passes through the cloud of smoke at the entrance to the bar. He stops in the doorway and braces himself for Mal’s wrath, throws his head back and plasters a smile on his face, dimples and all. He’s shocked at first and then embarrassed to see the orange end of a cigarette glowing in the shadows and a man smirking at him from the end of it. He hopes the man will attribute the flush that his heavy lidded gaze brings to Arthur’s skin to the red neon of the bar’s sign. He can’t really see the details of the man’s appearance in the dark, except that he looks familiar somehow, but Arthur’s flustered and rushing through the door before he can really think about it, the sound of cheers and his name being yelled immediately distracting him.

  
…

  
The bar is loud and packed. Arthur has to shoulder his way through a wall of people wanting to clap him on the back and wish him well, or warn him that this is the beginning of the rest of his life, or, worst of all, remind him of how young he still is. One of the older regulars, Lorraine of the bottle blonde beehive, over-rouged cheeks and ever-present Virginia Slim, does this by pinching his cheek and calling him a baby before he can manage to break through to the teeny tiny patch of free space on the other side of her. By the time he disengages his dimples from Lorraine’s Passionately Pink fingernails, he’s already reaching up to undo the top button of his shirt and loosen his tie.

  
He glances around for a second, trying to get his bearings and his courage up at the same time, before he notices Dom with Mal on his lap and a pitcher of beer on the table in front them, sitting near the open doorway to the smoker’s patio. Mal’s barely bothering to ash her cigarette onto the concrete, just holding it with a limp wrist in the direction of the open air when it’s not between her lips. There’s probably twenty-so or more people packed into the two by six foot space, which is why there were so many people opting to move freely while they smoked out front. Mal takes another drag of her cigarette while Arthur is trying to make his way over and he stops short, the orange glow of the cherry and the cloud of smoke wafting past her lips reminding him of the man in the shadows. It sends a little shiver down his spine despite the oppressing heat in the bar. It’s stupid, he didn’t even get a good look at the man’s face, but for some reason now he’s stopped still because of a split-second incident that should never have received a second thought.

  
He’s knocked out of his little reverie when he’s jostled by an over-exuberant patron. He accepts the man’s slurred apology with a dismissive wave and resumes his attempted parting of the drunk sea to get to his friends and the lecture he’s sure is awaiting him. Sure enough, Mal notices him as he’s closing in on their table and her eyes go dark even as she gives him a small smile. There’s an empty pint glass sitting in the center of the small table, completely clean of beer residue - _his_ cup, obviously. He can just imagine Mal setting it on the table and imperiously commanding that it be left untouched until Arthur arrived, not because it’s his birthday and she wants him to feel special, but because she’s the queen of the guilt trip. She knows how to do it subtly and she knows how to do it not so subtly.

  
“Arthur!” Arthur doesn’t realize that Ariadne and Yusuf are there, blocked by the sea of bodies, until Ariadne’s up and wrapping her arms around his ribcage, her head barely reaching to his collarbone. Yusuf gives him a wink and a smile and clap on the back and tells him that his present is waiting in the console of his car to be retrieved and enjoyed at a later date. Unfortunately greeting them only gives him so much of a reprieve before he’s forced to face Mal’s wrath.

  
“I’m guessing this is mine.” He reaches for the empty glass as he untangles Ariadne from his person and pulls up an empty chair. Mal’s smile twitches like she’s having trouble holding it when she nods.

  
“So kind of you to finally join us, Arthur.”

  
“Mal…” Dom’s warning is low and said directly into her ear, but Arthur hears it anyway. Probably she’s been making comments about his absence all night. Arthur’s been the sympathetic ear to her perceived insults before and it took him two full years to realize that he didn’t actually feel the exact same way that she did every time. It’s not that she’s purposefully manipulative, she just says whatever she says with such authority and confidence that people tend to find themselves agreeing with her. He doesn’t actually think that they’ve all been sitting here badmouthing him for the last few hours, but Dom’s bordering on impatient tone makes it seem like this isn’t the first time Mal’s made everyone aware that Arthur’s offended her.

  
He decides to face the issue head-on. “I’m sorry, guys. I really didn’t think it would take that long.” He shrugs his shoulders and tries for sheepish. “But I’m here now, right? It’s still early.”

  
Mal’s face softens just a little bit, but her eyes are still wary and hard. Arthur doesn’t want her looking at him like that. She’s his best friend and it hurts him to know that he’s hurt her, but at the same time, she’s being unfair. She’s been steadily colder to him as his relationship with Charles has progressed and he knows that they don’t spend as much time together, but that’s what happens when boyfriends become part of the picture. It’s as much her fault for Dom as it is his for Charles. It’s just a crappy situation all around and they haven’t had a chance to just sit down and talk it out. He was hoping tonight would help to smooth things over, but it’s not looking good.

  
“Where’s Charles, Arthur?” Arthur cringes at Ariadne’s question. It’s completely valid, but it also puts the ice back in Mal’s eyes. He tries to fake a smile, but he’s sure it’s transparent.

  
“He wasn’t feeling well. Too much wine at the reception.”

  
“But I thought he was driving you tonight?” Mal’s too clever for her own good. She’s always played his Devil’s advocate and she knows fully well that doing it now is only going to cause problems.

  
“He was. He did. It wasn’t… He wasn’t _drunk_ , he just wasn’t feeling well. It was dessert wine. Too sweet. You guys know how it is.”

  
“Oh, of course.” Mal arches an eyebrow as she takes another drag of her cigarette and Arthur bristles.

  
“He wanted to come. He did. He wasn’t. Feeling. Well.”

  
“We believe you, Arthur.” She’s so transparent at this point that he can hardly stand it, but he decides to cut his losses and let it go.

  
“Right,” he mutters to himself and reaches for the pitcher, barely done pouring his beer before he’s raising it to his lips. His buzz from the exhibit is fading and he needs to catch it and fast.

  
He’s halfway through pounding his pint when Mal suddenly perks up and nearly leaps off of Dom’s lap. She tosses her cigarette stub outside without even bothering to see that it doesn’t hit anyone, not that they’d notice.

  
“Paddy, there you are!” Arthur coughs into his beer and Ariadne has to take it from him to keep him from spilling it all over himself as he doubles over and tries not to hack up a lung. He feels a heavy and very warm hand on his back and has to force himself not to flinch, which isn’t hard considering he hasn’t quit coughing.

 

“Alright there, mate?” There’s laughter in the man’s voice, which is deep and gravelly and so very British. He can hear some resemblance to Charles, but it’s not the same. Charles’s voice is refined and clipped. This man’s voice is raw, guttural and Arthur can feel the vibrations of his speech through the hand still on his back.

  
He coughs one last time and straightens up, relieved when the hand falls away despite the cold spot it leaves. He turns in his chair and raises his gaze to the newcomer’s face as he’s speaking.

  
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Thanks…” His speech tails off in an obvious way but he can’t help it, because smiling down at him with his hand extended is the man from the front, the man with the smirk and the heavy-lidded gaze, the man who’s still giving Arthur chills that have nothing to do with temperature.

  
"Call me Eames."

  
“You’re Paddy?” Arthur manages to croak and the man just grins and holds out the hand that had just been on Arthur’s back.

  
“Like I said, just Eames. My full name is entirely too pretentious.”

  
“Oh right, I’m, um, Arthur.” Arthur manages to get his own hand out to shake but immediately regrets it when Eames’s fingers curl around his own and are warm and dry and slightly calloused. He immediately thinks manly, _manly_ hands. Charles’s hands are bigger than Arthur’s, but they’re still elegant and moisturized and his fingernails are manicured. Clearly, Charles and his brother have not been engaging in the same types of physical activities in their adult lives. Of course _that_ thought sends a completely unwelcome shock down Arthur’s spine, reminding him of all the physical activities that Charles is definitely not engaging in with him. He rips his hand out of Eames’s grip with very little grace under the guise of wrapping his fingers around his glass. Eames gives him a queer look that passes before Arthur can truly register the meaning behind it, besides the obvious _‘this man I’ve just is a complete loon’._

  
“Well, Um Arthur, pleasure to meet you. Mal has been extolling your virtues to me for quite some time now. I was beginning to think you couldn’t possibly be real.”

  
Arthur’s not functioning at a capacity where he’s prepared to respond to small talk that sounds suspiciously like a come on. He narrows his eyes and clears his throat, drags his thumb through the condensation on his glass, and starts to panic a little bit when his brain can’t come up with anything that isn’t rude or stupid. Out of desperation he goes with stupid.

  
“Well, here I am, very real.”

  
Eames lifts and eyebrow and actually _purrs_ at him. “Yes you definitely are.”

  
Arthur immediately wishes he’d gone with rude. “I _was_ going to say it’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Eames, but now I’m not so sure that’s the case.”

  
“Oh, Arthur, you wound me.” Eames claps a hand to his heart and feigns heartbreak, but he’s laughing, familiarly thick lips catching on uneven teeth. It is absolutely not charming. Absolutely not.

  
“He doesn’t mean that, Paddy. You mustn’t listen to him.” Mal’s eyes are narrowed to just slightly wider slits than Arthur’s. She’s plotting and that is never good news. She smirks at him and speaks up before he can form a plan of escape. “Oh, Paddy, it looks like Arthur took the last chair.” Her voice has gotten syrupy sweet, another bad sign.

  
Eames just smiles and waves her off, falsely offering Arthur a moment of relief that Mal’s plan has been thwarted, because of course it hasn’t. This is Mal, he should know better. “It’s fine, darling, I’ll stand.”

  
“No it is not! Arthur, you must share your chair with Paddy. It is the polite thing to do.” _Bitch_.

  
“Mal,” Arthur says slowly, trying to mentally communicate to her just how awkward she’s making everything. He knows she gets it, but he should have also known that she would blatantly ignore it. “That’s really inappropriate.”

  
“Nonsense, Arthur. I’m sharing with Dom,” and she gives him her perfected innocent angel smile.

  
“It isn’t the same, Mal.”

  
Eames starts shifting his weight on his feet, not sure what exactly is transpiring. Ariadne clears her throat and pulls on Eames’s sleeve in a desperate attempt to ease the tension. “I’ll scoot over, Eames. You can share my chair.”

  
“Why thank you, Ariadne.” Ariadne scoots and Eames squeezes in between her and Arthur to settle on the side of the chair that she’s vacated, but he’s so big that despite her tiny size, his arm is still pressed tightly against Arthur’s. “Sorry ‘bout this, mate,” he whispers conspiratorially, but from the sparkle in his eye, Arthur can tell he’s not sorry at all.

  
“Good!” Mal claps her hands and smiles gleefully, wiggling on Dom’s lap. Dom coughs and blushes, wrapping his fingers over her shoulder to still her. Arthur can take some solace in the fact that Mal’s mission to embarrass is not limited solely to him.

  
“Hush, Dom,” she chides, slapping him on the thigh. “Now, shall we play a drinking game?”

  
Eames’s shoulder shakes against Arthur’s when he laughs, jostling him. “What type of game did you have in mind, Mallorie, dearest?”

  
Mal’s smile fluidly melts into a smirk directed right at Arthur. “I am sure that everyone knows how to play Never Have I Ever, yes?”

  
Amid the chorus of affirmatives, Arthur finally loses it. “No! No. Mal, we agreed. The King’s Cup Treaty of ’09, remember? You’re not allowed to play or even suggest playing Never Have I Ever, Two Truths and a Lie, or any type of game resembling either of those. You are suggesting civil war, Mal. _Civil. War._ ”

  
“Come on, Arthur. It can’t be that bad,” Ariadne pipes up, muffled by Eames’s ridiculously broad shoulders.

  
“She cheats!”

  
“ _Can_ you cheat at such a game?” Yusuf asks.

  
Mal starts to say no, but Arthur’s tantrum hasn’t lost its steam and he overpowers her. “Mal can! She singles people out. She specifically makes statements that she knows I’ll have to put my fingers down for! She’s evil!”

  
“Arthur, darling, it’s just a silly game, yea?” Arthur’s ready to keep ranting, but then Eames puts his hand on Arthur’s knee and _squeezes_ and Arthur chokes it off.

  
“ _Mr. Eames_ ,” he snaps out, after a few heart-pounding moments of not breathing. Eames just laughs and pats Arthur’s knee once before pulling his hand away, not in the least bit ashamed.

  
“So, shall we play?” Mal asks, pointedly not looking in Arthur’s direction. He can say no all he wants, it won’t stop her, not when she’s on a mission. “You can go first, Arthur, since you do not trust me.”

  
Arthur grits his teeth and white-knuckles his beer. “Fine. I’ve never puked from drinking.”

  
“Oh, Arthur, you have no imagination,” Mal sighs. “And you did not phrase it right.”

  
“Put your finger down, Mal,” he demands, and she pouts but does it.

  
The game goes smoothly for the next three turns, everybody too nervous at first to say anything truly scandalous. But then it’s Mal’s turn and Arthur braces himself for the worst.

  
“Never have I ever,” she begins, stretching out her words to create an air of suspense, “hooked up with someone of the same sex.”

  
“Oh come on! I told you guys she would do this. Singling out the gay guy, Mal, real classy.”

  
“Well, at least you’re not alone in that for once, Arthur,” Yusuf says good-naturedly, shrugging in Eames’s direction. Arthur hadn’t even noticed that Eames had put a finger down.

  
“Fine,” he huffs, “but turnabout’s fair play. _Never have I ever_ -“

  
“Um, isn’t it my turn?”

  
“Shut up, Dom. Never have I ever had sex with a teacher for a better grade.” Arthur sits back, smugly relishing the stricken look on Mal’s face.

  
“That _wasn’t_ about my grade and you know it!”

  
“And yet somehow your C magically became an A without any _academic_ effort on your part.”  
Mal's cheeks are cherry red.

  
“Well, I’ve never abandoned my friends for my boyfriend!” She shrieks, her fingers digging into Dom’s forearm where she’s grabbed him like his skin is a stress ball.

  
“Are you accusing me of something?” Arthur stands, actually angry now.

  
“This game deteriorated rather quickly, didn’t it?” Eames mutters beside him, but Arthur can barely hear him over the rush of blood roaring in his ears.

  
“I don’t know, Arthur,” Mal shrugs, trying to look nonchalant even though she’s clearly just as angry as he is. “Are you feeling guilty?”

  
“I don’t have anything to feel guilty for! I haven’t _forgotten_ you.”

  
“It certainly doesn’t feel like that from where I’m sitting.”

  
“On Dom’s lap! You’re such a hypocrite! God, you know what I don’t get, Mal? Why does it bother you _so much_ that I’m in a happy relationship?”

  
“Because you are not happy! You think Charles is your perfect counterpart, but you’re wrong!”

  
“Why? Why am I wrong, Mal? You keep saying that he’s not good enough for me and that he’s going to break my heart, but you can’t give me a single reason why!”

  
“I told you, he was mean to-“

  
“To _Paddy_ , but not getting along with his brother doesn’t make him a bad person, Mal. You wouldn’t know because you’ve always been Daddy’s only little princess, but lots of siblings don’t get along.”

  
“I feel terribly awkward now,” Eames mumbles, but Arthur’s already storming away.

  
He stops just long enough to grab the entire pitcher from the middle of the table and then shoves his way out onto the patio, completely ignoring Mal’s angry shouts behind him, just the same way she’d ignored his attempts to prevent this mess from happening.

  
…

  
He’s swigging the last of the beer straight from the pitcher when someone sits down on the bench next to him.

  
“If you’re not bringing me more booze, then I don’t want to be your friend,” he mumbles.

  
“Good thing I came prepared, yea?”

  
Arthur sets the empty pitcher on the ground and holds out his hand, slapping Eames’s shoulder with the back of it when he doesn’t hand the new pitcher over immediately.

 

“I have a boyfriend,” he says.

  
“So I gathered,” Eames says softly, handing the beer over as carefully as he can, but Arthur still manages to splash a good amount on his pants.

  
“I suppose the saying is true then, the good ones are all either taken or straight.”

  
Arthur snorts despite himself and nudges Eames with his shoulder, spilling more beer in the process. “S’not how it goes.”

  
“Well it doesn’t pertain to me much the other way around, now does it?”

  
“Guess not.” Arthur passes the pitcher back over and watches as Eames drinks from it, his bobbing adam’s apple silhouetted in the moonlight.

 

Arthur snatches the pitcher back the second Eames takes it away from his lips, desperate for something to do that doesn’t involve looking at the other man. Eames just chuckles and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting up before offering the pack to Arthur. He takes one and almost falls into Eames’s lap when he leans into the flame.

  
“Maybe it’s time we got you home, darling.” Eames’s voice is a pleasant rumble against Arthur’s side, lulling him into closing his eyes and letting his head fall against Eames’s shoulder.

  
“Yea, home sounds good. You can’t stay though. On account of 'm sleeping with yer brother.”

  
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Arthur. Well, that’s a lie, but I won’t do it.”\

  
“Hmm, good.”

  
…

  
Arthur wakes up in his boxers in his bed, alone and hungover. There’s a glass of water, a bottle of Excedrin, and a packet of Alka-Seltzer on his bedside table, and he’s pretty certain he didn’t put there. It isn’t until he’s taken the pills and finished chugging the fizzing water that he notices the card stuck to the bottom of the glass. He pulls it off and his breath catches in his throat. On the front it says “Forger Antiques” with the shop's address but no name. On the other…

  
On the other side, in slanted but legible script it says, “ _When you want your wallet back, I’ll be at the shop_.”

  
Arthur tries to smother himself with his pillow. It doesn’t work.

  
…

  
He doesn’t want to check his phone, afraid that his inbox and voicemail will be overrun with angry messages from Mal or even worse, apologies. He’s not ready to forgive her and he’s definitely not ready to apologize for anything. With the hangover comes regret and he’s feeling it in heaps right now, mostly for his behavior and potentially embarrassing himself in front of everyone by acting like an ass, but he’s also still mad and he knows he’s justified in that, even if he’s not totally innocent in the entire debacle. Mal could have talked to him privately if she was feeling left out, it wasn’t necessary to corner him in front of their friends and a _complete stranger_ to get what she wanted. He knows that they’ve been drifting apart, but he had no clue that Mal was _so_ upset. Aside from the regular remarks about Charles and his absolute failure at being a human being in Mal’s opinion, she’d almost seemed to be starting to accept the relationship, or at least Arthur’s feelings. It’s not Mal’s place to decide who he can and cannot date, childhood friends or no, Arthur met Charles independently of her. He has every right to want to pursue a relationship with the man and he just can’t get his head around Mal’s vicious opposition to it.

  
He’s mad at the way she handled confronting him and he’s mad at himself for his own behavior and he’s mad at Eames for stealing his wallet and forcing him to face the night way before he’ll ever actually be mentally ready to. If Eames hadn’t stolen his wallet, Arthur might have been able to put this entire thing behind him, at least for the rest of the weekend. He and Mal have fought before, all friends do, and he knows this would have blown over eventually, with only a few interferences from Ariadne and Dom and Yusuf. Mostly it would have been Ariadne, who has a tendency to be a little nosier than is usually socially acceptable. Yusuf would have just made him drinks and listened to him rant should he have felt the need to, which he probably wouldn’t have. He only expects that Dom would have gotten involved out of an obligation to Mal, either because it physically pains him to see her upset or because she would have told him to.

  
As he’s getting ready, which in his hungover state involves little more than a quick rinse and doing his best impression of a college student in ratty old jeans, equally ratty old chucks, and a hoodie, Arthur starts to obsess on the idea that he shouldn’t have to face Eames _at all_. They’re not friends and yes, Eames helped him get home and raided his medicine cabinet for morning-after essentials, but that only means he might possibly be a gentleman, which Arthur highly doubts considering the man took his fucking wallet. Then there’s the fact that he woke up wearing boxers, which isn’t actually better than nothing at all, because he was definitely wearing boxer _briefs_ underneath his slacks last night. So he stripped down and dug through his underwear drawer for a pair of boxers to change into, which isn’t exactly _that_ strange because he has done it before, - he doesn’t try to understand his drunk brain’s logic- but there’s the chance that Eames may have been witness to it, and that’s mortifying.

  
As he’s walking out the door, hood up, hair un-gelled, and sunglasses on, he briefly considers the benefits of just canceling all of his cards and heading straight for the DMV to get a new license and making sure he never has to face Paddy Eames ever again, even if that means making up increasingly elaborate lies to excuse himself from every Eames family function he might ever be invited to. As tempting as it is, he has to admit that spending his day at the DMV will in no way be better than spending fifteen minutes in the company of his boyfriend’s brother, but it’s still tempting.…

  
Arthur sits in his car hyping himself up for five minutes before he gets up the gumption to cross the parking lot and go through the door. The sign says ‘closed’, but the knob turns and the door opens and Arthur’s immediately enveloped in the kind of musty air that seems requisite for antique stores and used book stores and old homes. The gingerbread house that had to die for “the waste of his time” probably smelled like that, but that whole line of thinking just makes him remember that Monday is going to come sooner rather than later and with it will come work and the office and Dom and Mal. He abandons the entire thought process in favor of actually seeing the shop he’s in. It’s much larger on the inside than it seemed from the parking lot and he’s pretty impressed. He’d known where it was because up until a year ago, the building had been a topless bar, dropped right between a taco shop and a car dealership and completely out of place. Arthur had never been inside because of the obvious reason of boobs not being his goody bags of choice, but he imagines it probably didn’t look half this big on the inside back then and was probably twice as dirty.

  
Now it’s packed to the edges with furniture and birdcages and various knick-knacks, but Arthur’s surprised to find there’s an order to the chaos. Everything is grouped by culture and era and there’s a pathway of sorts that weaves around the store like a labyrinth. Arthur actually manages to get a half decent look at everything because there doesn’t seem to be anyone in the store but him. He’s inspecting a bureau with glass front doors and more hidden compartments than could possibly be necessary for anyone who’s not involved in some kind of espionage, trying to get a closer look at what might be a stole or a muff stuffed in a dark corner, when the bell over the door jingles and two yellow eyes suddenly pop open and stare straight back at him. He shouts and jumps back, almost knocking into a side table holding two glass vases and a china figurine. The ball of fur seems to glare at Arthur for a second before it slithers out from the entirely too small space it had been occupying and jumps down through the open door of the bureau. It struts away like it’s too good to even be bothered by Arthur’s presence and he manages to be startled a second time by its sheer size. It looks like a miniature cheetah. He doesn’t think there should be a miniature cheetah in an antique shop. It doesn’t seem practical.

  
“That would be Nefertiti, queen of Egypt,” comes a voice from behind him, in the direction of the door. Arthur’s caught between trying to reconcile the fact that the toy cheetah has a name and the way Eames’s accent still sends shivers down his spine despite the way he’s avidly trying to dislike the man.

  
“What?” he says intelligently.

  
“She’s a serval.”

  
“Can you even keep one of those in California?” Arthur asks, finally turning around.

  
Eames is walking towards him with a white bag that’s already turning clear on the bottom from all the grease leaking from whatever it’s holding, which smells like heaven and immediately starts making Arthur’s stomach growl.

  
Eames shrugs and looks pensive. “Not sure actually, but no one said anything when I snuck her into the country in my baggage.”

  
Arthur’s jaw drops and he starts to splutter, not sure which statement he wants to take offense with first.

  
“Relax, Arthur. I’ve complied with all the laws and signed all the right papers. She’s perfectly legal.”

  
“Oh, well. Good. That’s good.”

  
“Your articulacy is astonishing, Arthur,” Eames says dryly, his lips quirking up at the corners in a smirk that Arthur feels he has gotten entirely too familiar with in only two times of meeting the man. “Kept her since she was just a kitten. Couldn’t bear to be parted from her when I moved back to the colonies from Kenya. Now the queen of Egypt is the queen of southern California. A much smaller kingdom, to be sure, but she seems content enough.”

  
Arthur’s so blindsided by this new development that he completely forgets to ask about his wallet. While he’d been talking, Eames had crossed the floor to sit behind a counter, and is now unpacking the contents of the white bag. Arthur is drawn over by the smell despite himself, and takes a seat in one of the chairs set up, for some reason, in front of the counter.

  
“So, um,” he starts, but Eames completely ignores him, handing over a heart attack wrapped in yellow paper.

  
“Here you are, darling. Finest chorizo breakfast burrito this side of the border, or so I’ve heard. You do like chorizo, don’t you?”

  
Arthur isn’t sure he does, but his angry stomach and the mouth-watering smell wafting from the thing insist that he does now.

  
“Wha- uh, thank you.”

  
“Not a problem, was you that paid for them after all.” Eames grins and brandishes Arthur’s wallet from the pocket on the front of his shirt, holding it just out of Arthur’s reach, as if he’d be so juvenile as to jump up and actually try to grab it. Arthur sits back down in a huff and rips the paper from his burrito with way more force than is warranted.

  
“What the hell, Eames,” he fumes, glaring daggers at the man.

  
“You really must relax, Arthur. I was just having a bit of fun with you, yea? Really, it’s a wonder you and my brother get any proper shagging done with those sticks wedged so far up your respective arses.”

  
Arthur blanches and stuffs a too large and still too hot chunk of burrito in his mouth to keep from retorting and embarrassing himself any further. He knows that Eames is just teasing him again. He tries to chew through the burn to save face, but it’s obvious that Eames can tell he's in pain because he’s smiling wide, those obscene lips pulled taut above his uneven teeth, and his eyes are crinkling at the corners. The entire picture is unfairly adorable and makes Arthur chew with extra fervor to combat the knee-jerk urge to smile back.

  
Eames is enjoying Arthur’s discomfort way too much, as evidenced when his eyes darken and his smile turns mischievous. He holds Arthur’s wallet up again and politely waits for Arthur to finish chewing before he starts speaking, or else he’s using it as an excuse for dramatic pause - probably the latter.

  
“Now, Arthur, there are some things that I would like to discuss before I return this to your possession. I only nicked it in the first place because I didn’t think I’d get you to talk to me otherwise.”

  
“You mean of my own free will. You wouldn’t be able to get me to talk to you of my own free will.”

  
Eames actually has the gall to look exasperated with him. “If you must be so veracious about it. The point is, you and Mal were both very upset last night. She is one of my oldest and greatest friends, and I feel that I owe it to her to at least make an effort to be an unbiased voice in all of this. Now, I think you’re a bit of a prat, albeit a gorgeous and somehow slightly charming one, but Mallorie adores you. I just wanted to make sure that last night’s little spat didn’t carry over into something larger than the both of you can handle.”

  
“I’m sorry, are you _lecturing me_? I just met you last night and you’re _lecturing me_?”

  
Arthur’s furious, ready to damn his wallet and suffer the DMV if it means he doesn’t have to listen to Eames anymore.

  
“No, Arthur, please. That is the exact opposite of what I’m trying to do. I just thought you might want an impartial ear to bend, is all.” Eames looks sincere, but his father said he was a gambler. This could be his poker face.

  
“What Mal did was messed up. I have every right to be pissed. I had every right to be pissed last night.”

  
“And pissed you were, darling. You didn’t seem to mind my company so much when you had a few drinks in you.”

  
“Don’t britishism me! You know what I mean.”

  
“Britishism!” Eames cracks up even though Arthur definitely didn’t mean to make a joke.

  
“She deliberately baited me. She doesn’t get to be upset that I rose to it. If she has a problem with me, she should tell me, not humiliate me in front of our friends,” he says quieting down, starting to shift from angry to melancholy.

  
“You’re quite right.”

  
“I am?”

  
Eames’s face softens and Arthur really wants to believe it’s not a mask. It would be nice to talk about the whole thing. “Arthur, of course. Look, I lured you here because I felt bad for you, not pity mind you, actual sympathy. You’re not a bad bloke and I knew if my brother got his hands on you first, there’d be no getting your head out of your arse afterward. I don’t want to rain on your relationship,” he continues on when Arthur starts to protest, “but I know Charles and I know that he hides it well, but he's no more fond of Mal than she is of him. Mal _was_ wrong, Arthur, and I’m quite sure she’s well aware of that. But stubborn gits will be stubborn gits and I assume you’ll both hold on to your respective grudges for far longer than is sane.”

  
Arthur just crosses his arms and clenches his jaw. If Eames is going to call him a stubborn git without even knowing him then he will damn well prove him right. He does not care in the least that the man probably doesn't need the proof. Eames sighs and takes a large bite out of his burrito, not bothering to finish swallowing before he’s talking again. Arthur should find it far more appalling than he actually does.

  
“I know you and Mal have been bosom buddies since the second you laid eyes on each other, but that’s only been about five years or so. She had a life before that, yea? And I’m sure there are things about that life that she hasn’t shared with you. So you’ve just got to accept that she has her reasons for her behavior. I know she was a royal twat but maybe give her a break. You can’t convince me there’s not a heart underneath that stone-cold armor you wear. No one who looks all of twelve out of a suit can be all bad.”

  
The thing is Eames is right and Arthur knows it. Yes, he’s still mad and will probably be mad for a little while, but like he thought earlier, he’ll get over it. Mal’s got a perverse way of handling her problems and when they finally do talk, they’ll talk about that, but she’s still been a good friend and he loves her even when he’s mad at her.

  
“It’s not my place to tell you the whole story, but it’s not fair you being so in the dark. Mal’s probably the most romantic girl you’ve ever met, yea? All unicorns and rainbows and cupcakes and the lot. She’s in love with being in love. Dom isn’t the first bloke she’s ever been sure she was going to marry and _you’ve_ probably never had your heart broken. Mal has plenty. The pain might have been all in her head, but it was pain nonetheless. Just keep that in mind.”

  
Arthur doesn’t really know what to say to that. It all makes complete sense, even if there are a few details lacking, but he doesn’t want to press Eames for them. It’s enough that he told Arthur this much. Arthur’s losing his grip on his determination to hate the guy which isn’t nearly as frustrating as it should be.

  
“The fact that you think I look like I'm twelve right now, but still felt it necessary to tell me that I'm gorgeous makes me wary, Mr. Eames. Do I need to make a call to Dateline NBC?” Arthur changes the subject and tries to keep a stern face, but he cracks, dimples popping out. He's flirting, there's no denying that, but in the moment he forgets to feel guilty.

  
Eames’s face splits into a grin that would have anyone believing that Christmas had come early. “Eat your burrito,” he growls playfully.

  
“Yes sir,” Arthur quips and does as he’s told. Now that it’s not burning away the roof of his mouth, it tastes as heavenly as it smells.

  
They eat in silence for the most part with only the odd, inappropriate moan breaking the silence. By the time they’re both done eating, it’s become a sort of competition to see who can be the most lewd and ridiculous, heavy in Eames’s favor because he’s got the British accent and lips that practically take up half his face. Arthur tries not to stare, but he’s a red-blooded twenty-three year old with the raging libido to show for it, so he can’t really be blamed if he fails. He’s decided by the end of their moaning match that Eames’s lips aren’t exactly fuller than Charles’s but are somehow plusher and possibly more inviting. That thought causes him to freeze mid-moan, resulting in a queer look from Eames and a bad feeling in the pit of Arthur’s stomach.

  
“Um, sorry. I got a piece of potato caught in my throat. I’m fine.” He shrugs and tries to play it off, relaxing when the look fades and Eames starts smiling again.

  
“Perhaps your mother should have taught you not to moan with your mouth full,” he suggests, eyes crinkling at the corners.

  
Arthur crumples the burrito wrapper in his fist as he tries _not_ to react to that statement. Eames is not more attractive than Charles. Arthur tries to repeat that in his head, but he keeps getting distracted by his own traitorous thoughts. It’s clear just by looking at them that they’re identical twins, but because of time and age and drastically different personalities they don’t look _exactly_ alike. Charles is lean, which Arthur _likes_. His shoulders are just slightly broader than Arthur’s own and he knows that they must look like the perfect poster couple standing next to each other. Eames is thick. There’s less definition in his face and Arthur can tell just by looking that he would absolutely swim in one of Eames’s shirts.

  
Arthur shouldn’t find it appealing the way Eames’s biceps are probably the same size as his own thighs. He can’t be sure because each time he’s met Eames, the man’s been wearing a jacket, but based on his visual estimation, Eames is a big guy and not Arthur’s type. So he doesn’t understand why the hell looking at Eames doesn’t make him want for Charles, or why the hell he's even thinking about what he would look like in Eames's shirt. 'Slutty,' his mind supplies, providing him with a mental image that doesn't involve pants - his traitorous, terrible mind.

  
His sudden introspection has made the moment tense and uncomfortable, so Arthur clears his throat and gropes through his brain for something _platonic_ to say to break the tension. He spots the mini-cheetah curling up on an armchair out of the corner of his eye and suddenly remembers that Eames had said something about living in Kenya.

  
“So, Africa? “ It’s a little awkward but sure to get conversation going. It’s weird but even with the tension, Arthur doesn’t feel any desperation to get away.

  
“Ah, yes. Thought I wanted to go back to England for Uni, but I found it a bit boring, yea? Decided to do a semester at Kenyatta University for a change of pace and ended up at the Mombasa campus. I fell a little bit in love with the place.”

  
“Why’d you come back here?”

  
Eames shrugs and leans back in his chair, lifting a hand to his mouth to chew thoughtfully on his thumbnail. Arthur deliberately looks away.

  
“Don’t have much of solid reason, I guess. After a few years it just seemed like time to move on. I guess I’m not one for staying in one place.”

  
“That’s… pretty fascinating,” Arthur admits. “I did a semester in France, but it was just the one semester”

  
“I bet you were the perfect little student too. Probably missed half the culture.”

  
“Are you kidding? I saw every building in my textbooks. It was incredible!” Arthur hunches up his shoulders in defense, trying to look indignant rather than pouty.

  
“Ah but, darling, culture is so much more than _buildings_. You really must expand your vision, Arthur. If you let yourself get so focused on what you _think_ it is you should be looking for, there’s no telling what you might be missing.”

  
Arthur doesn't have a retort for that.

  
He’s well aware that he’s a particularly single-minded person, but it’s what’s always worked for him. He likes plans and structure, hence why he likes architecture. The fact that he might not be getting the whole picture has never really bothered him… until now. He doesn’t think Eames is insinuating anything, but that doesn’t stop Arthur’s own brain from forming doubts that he would have immediately cast aside before. The argument with Mal, meeting Eames, his lackluster sex life, all are piling up to make him start thinking twice about the path he's on.

  
He grabs a teddy bear off the tabletop without really thinking about it to distract him from his own thoughts and swallows hard. It takes him a few seconds, as he fiddles with the bear’s tiny pair of red wellington boots, to realize that he’s taken the bear from its own special place among _many_ and that they are all wearing some combination of boots, coat, and floppy hat, except for one that is wearing said floppy hat with a multi-colored _poncho_. The one he’s holding is fairly new, but there are positively ancient ones among the group with threadbare fur and stains and one with a missing eye. There are books too, interspersed with the bears, children’s stories detailing the bear’s trip to market or, in the case of a tiny blue hard-bound that looks like it has definitely seen better days – the bear’s name. There’s even a tin of band-aids covered in cartoon depictions of the little bear.

  
“Oh, what? These are _all_ Paddington Bear! You have, like, _twenty_ Paddington Bears!” Arthur’s voice only cracks a little, but he can’t help it.

  
 _He_ had two Paddington Bear’s when he was little, one that his grandmother had given him and that he’d had his mother place high on a shelf where his sister, Morgan, couldn’t reach it, because it was old and therefore in need of protecting in Arthur’s mind. He knew it was old because it had been his father’s when he was a kid like Arthur, and because Paddington’s fur was a little shaggier and his duffle coat a different shade of blue than the ones Arthur saw in the toy store. His second Paddington doubled as a tape deck and would tell him the stories of Paddington’s adventures as he fell asleep at night. He is overwhelmed by nostalgia, so much so that he misses the blush starting to stain Eames’s cheeks.

  
“It’s to do with the name,” Eames says, reaching over the table to gently take the bear from Arthur and put him back where he belongs. There’s a defensive note to his voice and Arthur lets go of the bear easily. “Paddington Eames, Paddington Bear. People think they’re clever when they make the connection.”

  
“Oh,” Arthur says softly, realizing that he’s inadvertently pushed a button, but then everything clicks in his head and any thoughts of being polite are shot. “ _Paddington_ , Paddy is short for _Paddington_?”

  
Eames shrugs and grimaces. “Paddington Winthrop Eames _the Third_.”

  
“I mean, it makes so much sense now I feel like an idiot for not putting it together but _why_? Why would your parents do that to you?” Somewhere, deep within Arthur’s soul, he feels like an asshole for reacting this way, but that part is very, _very_ deep and not nearly strong enough to quell the incredibly immature giggle fit he’s fallen into.  
It’s rude, _it’s so rude_ , but he can’t stop and Eames is starting to smile, uneven teeth showing and eyes crinkling and even if Arthur weren’t the one doubled over in his seat turning red, even if he was stony-faced and cold-hearted, the look on Eames’s face would soften him. Arthur has never noticed this about Charles, but Eames looks like a little boy when he smiles and it’s suddenly the most endearing thing. Eames’s smile encompasses his entire face and makes him glow. It is equal parts gleeful and mischievous and sweet and if Arthur hadn’t been laughing, he knows his cheeks would be red for a very different and far more embarrassing reason.

  
“I don’t think they were intentionally trying to be cruel. They named the both of us after our grandfathers, but my mother’s side has tended to be bit more conservative in their choices,” Eames chuckles, the low sound stirring something in Arthur’s gut. Charles’s laugh isn’t so throaty or warm.

  
“Okay, okay. I shouldn’t be laughing, because I can actually top that.”

  
“Oh, darling, I don’t see how. I’m named after a train station just like a certain bear that has followed me round my entire life.”

  
“No, no trust me,” Arthur protests, trying to force his lips to move normally despite the cramp in his cheeks caused by smiling so wide. He schools his expression into his serious business face and looks Eames dead in the eye. “My sister’s name is Morgan.”

  
Eames’s smile fades into a look of absolute befuddlement. He furrows his eyebrows and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, his teeth leaving uneven marks where he’s biting it. “I have to admit, Arthur, you’ve lost me. Morgan’s a right lovely name.”

  
“My name is _Arthur_ and I have a _sister_ named _Morgan_ ,” Arthur pushes, his grin slipping through.

  
It takes another few moments, but then it’s clear that Eames gets it because he’s suddenly _beaming_ and it’s so infectious that Arthur finds himself grinning so hard his cheeks are starting to cramp again.

  
“That _is_ bad. Just tell me that your last name isn’t Pendragon and I'll be able to sleep at night.”

  
“Thankfully it’s not and it’s not my middle name either. My parents met in a European mythology course in college. They thought it would be _romantic_ to commemorate their love by naming their kids after the legends that brought them together.”

  
“Darling, I do think we can call this a draw. Though, at least my parents had a somewhat noble reason for unwittingly putting me through Hell as a child.” Eames puts out his hand over the table to shake and Arthur gladly takes it, letting his fingers linger against Eames’s skin a little longer than is probably acceptable, but Eames doesn’t exactly pull his hand away with lightning speed either. Until Arthur’s phone goes off, startlingly loud and ruining the entire moment.

  
Arthur and Eames both rip their hands away like they’ve been burned. Arthur fumbles to pull his phone out of his pocket while Eames starts adjusting the bear collection, looking shifty and embarrassed. Arthur’s heart sinks when he reads the name on the screen- Charles. He’s had fleeting thoughts of Charles all morning, but they’ve all been in relation to Eames- Eames’s smile versus Charles's smile, Eames’s laugh versus Charles's laugh. He suddenly feels incredibly guilty for not thinking to call his boyfriend first thing, _before_ he had breakfast and what's amounted to almost an hour and a half of conversation and a fake orgasm battle with the man who helped him home the night before. He’s not sure if it would alleviate the guilt or make it worse if it were someone other than his boyfriend’s brother.

  
“I, um, I should probably go,” Arthur mumbles, not actually getting up.

  
“Ah, yes, yes of course. As magical as time spent in your company is, I’ve errands to run and such.” Eames smile is as flat as his words and he doesn’t make any movement to rise either.

  
“Yea, um, yea. Thanks for the burrito… and for stealing my wallet, I guess. This was actually preferable to spending the morning buried in bed watching Law and Order reruns. It was nice.” Arthur’s chest feels frozen after he gets the words out, waiting in panic to see the way Eames takes them.

  
He gets a half smile from Eames, a quirk of his lips and a sparkle in his eye that melts the ice in Arthur’s lungs. He lets out a huge breath just as Eames says, “see you around, Arthur,” in a soft and low voice that sounds undeniably fond.

  
“Yea, okay, see you, Eames” he says before forcing himself to turn around and walk out of the shop, cell phone burning a hole of guilt in his fist.

  
He’s only a couple of feet outside the door when he passes a sharply dressed man heading in. He mutters an apology when he accidentally bumps the man’s shoulder but doesn’t think much of it until the man stops and calls out to him.

  
“Mr. Levine? Arthur, right? We met last night?”

  
Arthur stops dead and turns slowly. He can actually feel the blood draining from his face.

  
“Mr. Fischer, good to see you again,” he forces out, eyes glued to Robert Fischer’s icy blue orbs.

  
Fischer smiles and makes an actual effort to pretend he’s not appraising Arthur’s outfit. Arthur’s saved from having to make awkward conversation by his phone ringing again. Fischer politely nods and waves him away and smiling gratefully, Arthur answers and puts the phone up to his ear.

  
“Hey,” he says softly, walking in the direction of his car, but surreptitiously looking over his shoulder to see Fischer push through the door to shop. He doesn’t miss how the sign is still flipped to ‘ _closed_ ’ or the way his stomach twists with irrational and entirely unwelcome jealousy.

  
…

  
Charles is already waiting at Arthur’s door when he gets home, in pressed slacks and a crisp shirt, looking every bit as perfect and delicious as the first time Arthur ever saw him. Arthur’s glad he asked him to come over, but he immediately wishes Charles could have taken a little bit longer to arrive. Arthur feels self-conscious in his jeans and hoodie and suddenly very young. There’s really only a four year difference between them, but in the several months they’ve been dating, Arthur can’t remember a time he’s ever seen Charles looking ruffled. Arthur doesn’t spend the night a lot, but when he has, Charles has always gotten up first and gotten in the shower before Arthur’s even done blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

  
He’s standing at the door right now with his hands in his pockets and a bemused look on his face, so handsome even confused. Arthur’s glad he’s here, he is, because he’s not thinking about Eames anymore, _he’s not_.

  
Charles raises one eyebrow and smiles, but it’s flat. “Where have you been?”

  
“Your brother stole my wallet.” He’s not sure why he tells the truth, even if it’s only a half-truth, but it comes out and Arthur immediately feels like it probably wasn’t the right thing to say. Charles’s eyebrows furrow just a fraction and his smile all but disappears.

  
“So you’ve met Paddy, then?”

  
“Well, he was at the bar. Mal invited him. So I had to go get my wallet back.” Arthur shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant so that maybe it will put Charles at ease. It seems to work, just a little, because the tense line of Charles’s shoulders softens and his smile is back, still flat.

  
“Well then,” he says as Arthur focuses on getting the door open. “I can see now why you’ve chosen to dress like a pre-pubescent drug dealer.”

  
“What?” Arthur subconsciously runs his fingers through his curls, pushing them off his face, when he turns to look at Charles. His expression is bordering on stormy, those blue eyes that Arthur fell for in the first place almost smoldering and not in the way that Arthur would prefer.

  
Charles shrugs and moves past Arthur into the living room, taking a seat on the couch and crossing one leg over the other. “You disguised yourself, I understand. You didn’t want anyone to recognize you associating with him.”

  
Arthur stops cold in the doorway, hand frozen halfway to dropping his keys on top of his liquor cabinet. Charles glances at him over his shoulder and rolls his eyes at the stricken expression on Arthur’s face.

 

“Really, Arthur, it was a joke. The man is my brother. I believe it’s allowed that I can make jokes about him.”

  
“Sure. Of course, right. I make fun of Morgan all the time,” Arthur laughs uncomfortably, still hesitant. Charles had _not_ sounded light-hearted, not teasing the way Arthur means when he talks about his sister. He drops his keys and the clatter startles him back into acting like a functioning human being.

  
Charles shoots him a sweet smile that, even a day ago, would have made him melt, but right now it just feels false. But he’d told Mal the night before that it was okay for siblings to fight and dislike each other, and there have been times in his own life when he’s definitely done more than lovingly mock Morgan – when he’s sworn he hates her and insulted her with actual venom in his words. He’s not a hypocrite; he has to be okay with whatever rivalry there might be, no matter how he might feel about Eames himself. Charles is his boyfriend, and he really, really likes him and Eames… Eames is just some guy that stole Arthur’s wallet.

  
Arthur doesn’t say anything, can’t think of anything to say that won’t make the situation more awkward, just goes to his room and changes into a pair of sweats that ride dangerously low on his hips. When he comes back out, Charles is watching some pretentious looking documentary. Normally, Arthur would make an effort to pretend he’s interested, but right now he’s unsettled and still a little hungover and horny. He leans over the back of the couch and wraps his arms around Charles’s shoulders, nuzzling into his neck. He’s always enjoyed Charles’s smell and now he inhales it, breathing in deeply at the same time he presses his lips to Charles’s skin.

  
“I didn’t think you’d be in the mood after the night you had,” Charles’s rumbles and Arthur groans, pressing his growing erection against the couch back.

  
“Mmm, definitely in the mood.” Arthur licks the skin just below Charles’s ear and then nips the lobe playfully, and dances away, his hard-on tenting the front of his sweats pretty obviously.

  
“Bedroom?” Charles asks, standing and already unbuttoning his cuffs.

  
Arthur was hoping for a little more of a game, a little more playing before the grand finale, but there is a gorgeous man willing to help him achieve an orgasm and he’s not going to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

  
He steps out of his sweats on his way to the bed and flops down onto his back, cock standing proudly at attention. Charles watches him with appreciative eyes as he slowly disrobes. He drapes his slacks over the back of a chair in the corner and lays his shirt on top. When he’s just down to his briefs and Arthur’s practically writhing with impatience, Charles finally crawls onto the bed and holds himself over Arthur’s body. He leans down and kisses Arthur thoroughly; making him incredibly grateful he’d chewed two pieces of gum on the drive back to mask the taste of chorizo.

  
“I wanna fuck,” Arthur manages to gasp out once they break apart for air, but he’s not so into the moment that he misses the queer look Charles gives him.

  
“I believe we’re getting to that.”

  
“No, no I mean, I want you to _fuck_ me. Please.” Arthur closes his eyes and tries to rise up to capture Charles’s lips again, but Charles pulls back.

  
“Arthur. Perhaps that’s something we should discuss when we’re not already halfway there, hmm?”

  
“What? But… I want it! _Charles_.”

  
“Arthur, don’t be petulant. Let’s get back to what we were doing, yes? We’ll discuss transitioning to that… _next step_ later.”

  
Arthur opens his mouth to protest, because he’s pretty sure this is the perfect time to discuss what he wants in bed, since they’re _in bed_ , but Charles grabs his cock and starts stroking and anything he had to say dies in his throat. Charles distracts him with pleasure and even if it’s not exactly what Arthur wants, it still feels good and he’s coming from Charles’s dick between his thighs and Charles’s hand on his cock just as quick and hard as he probably would have anyway. Or at least that’s what he tells himself, easy to do when he’s warm and limp and half asleep from his orgasm. He barely registers Charles get up to use the shower. He doesn’t follow - one because his shower is too small for two people, and two because Charles has expressed distaste for shower sex. So Arthur curls up and enjoys his bliss and prepares to wait for his turn at the shower.

  
When he wakes up the sun has gone down. He’s still naked, but the comforter has been drawn over him and Charles obviously cleaned him up because he doesn’t feel the telltale pull of dried come on his skin or the greasy residue of lube between his thighs. But the lights are all off and there’s no noise coming from within the apartment except for the soft beep of his phone telling him he has a message, probably what woke him up in the first place. He fumbles around the bedside table for his phone because he’s pretty sure he put it there when he changed his pants. He finds it, but not before his fingers curl around a piece of paper lying on top of it. Arthur unlocks it and uses the ambient light to read the note.

 _  
Arthur_

 _  
Didn’t want to wake you. Had some work to do. Will call tomorrow. Sleep well, love._

 _  
Charles_

  
…

  
The note is short and succinct and leaves Arthur with a sinking feeling and a prickling behind his eyes. He would rather Charles had woken him. He really was looking forward to having the day with his boyfriend and said boyfriend let him sleep through it. It doesn’t make sense that he’s upset about this, except that he’s disappointed and alone.  
His phone beeps again and he finally looks at it. It’s a text from Ariadne.

  
Ariadne (7:03 p.m.) _How are you feeling_?

  
Me (7:20 p.m.) _Not as bad as I probably should be_

  
Ariadne (7:22 p.m.) _sorry about last night… I was going to come out and get you and take you home, but Eames really wanted to and he had a car. It wasn’t super awkward was it?_

  
Me (7:23 p.m.) _Not super awkward. I’m sorry too._

  
Ariadne (7:25 p.m.) _Last night was kind of a shitshow huh?_

  
Me (7:26 p.m.) _Yea…_

  
Ariadne (7:28 p.m.) _Wanna talk about it?_

  
Me (7:30 p.m.) … _not really_

  
Ariadne (7:33 p.m.) _Okay. It’ll all blow over. :) I’m glad it wasn’t awkward between you and Eames. I would’ve stopped him if I thought he had any ulterior motives but he totally seemed like a gentleman. Too bad he’s gay. :(_

  
Arthur thinks about that for a bit and wishes even more that Charles hadn’t left, because Eames is in his head again and that’s the last thing he wants. Because, despite stealing his wallet and basically tricking him into having an emotional conversation he would've avoided like the plague otherwise, he _is_ kind of a gentleman, and Arthur is as aware as anyone that chivalry is dying if not dead.

  
It shouldn't make him feel so warm and fuzzy inside. He doesn't tell Ariadne about that morning, just like he didn't elaborate to Charles. He doesn't know why he's keeping this to himself. It feels a little like subterfuge, and he feels guilty, but without even realizing it he's smiling thinking about Eames's self-satisfied smirk and the low growl of his voice. He's so _screwed_.

  
…

  
Arthur knows that there needs to be a talk; that the situation of sexual deprivation- as he’s taken to calling it in his mind- has gotten out of hand. Probably pushing for penetration in the heat of the moment, when Charles has so deftly managed to avoid it for the last three or so months they’ve been dating, wasn’t the best plan of action. But Arthur is not really a fan of long and emotional talks about his feelings, so it had seemed like a great idea at the time. He is fully aware that sitting Charles down so that he can say, “I would very much like it if you would be so inclined as to put your dick in my ass,” will be horrendously awkward and all sorts of terrible, but potentially worth it if it gets him to his end goal. Clearly it is something that Charles has reservations about if the day before is any indication, and Arthur just can’t let it go on this way. He’s not any kind of cockslut and he’s not about to beg for it, but he feels very strongly that sexual compatibility is a huge factor in a successful relationship. It’s not always a deal breaker and Arthur’s definitely not going to end his perfectly happy, perfectly satisfactory relationship if it turns out that he’s not going to get what he wants, but he _needs to know_. At least so he can get started on researching the perfect dildo.

  
So, on Sunday morning, Arthur calls Charles and tells him that they need to talk. He does not imagine the hesitance in his boyfriend’s voice when he agrees to Arthur coming over and Arthur does feel just a little bit guilty for making Charles worry, but there’s no way to say, “We need to talk about you putting your dick in my ass,” with class over the phone. The hollow, gnawing insecurity he comes away with is not part of his plan at all.

 

Charles greets him with a small kiss that Arthur deepens just to prove that he’s not there with the intentions that Charles suspects. The move visibly calms him and hisblue eyes go from wary to soft almost immediately. Arthur had decided on the drive over that it needed to be done quickly and immediately to spare the both of them any awkward hemming and hawing, like ripping off a band-aid, so he defers Charles’s offer of a drink or food and sits down on the couch, giving himself the small barrier of at least not having to look Charles in the eyes, and says, “Why won’t you fuck me?”

  
Apparently Charles _had_ gotten himself a drink, if the choking and following splash are any indication. “Arthur, what?”

  
“Yesterday. I asked you to fuck me and you wouldn’t. You said it was something we needed to talk about, so let’s talk.”

  
“Right now? You came all the way over here to talk about that, right now?”

  
“Yes, because it’s something that I want and you obviously have hesitations about it and I want to know why. If you’re really not into it, then fine, we’ll figure something out, but I need to know.”

  
Charles clears his throat and slowly takes a seat next to Arthur on the couch, leaving a fair amount of space between them. His cheeks are rosy, probably half from embarrassment and half from choking, and he seems incredibly unsettled. This is their first serious conversation about their relationship in the entirety of said relationship, and Arthur feels wrecked. They never even discussed the exclusivity of their relationship, just kind of assumed that since they were spending almost all of their free time together, they probably weren’t seeing other people. It’s been almost too easy between them since this thing began, so of course their first serious discussion has to be the most awkward thing possible.

  
“I’m not, ahem, particularly comfortable with it, no,” Charles finally says, quietly. Arthur feels a sting, but he doesn’t let it show.

  
“Okay.”

  
“It’s not… anything to do with you. It's- I’m not gay, Arthur.”

  
At this, Arthur’s head snaps up and he looks Charles dead in the eye. He knew the man was kind of in the closet, but he’d really underestimated how far.  
“ _What_?”

  
“Perhaps I phrased that wrong. I’m not in any sort of denial. I’ve been with other men, it’s just, all of my previous _relationships_ have been with women. So, I suppose you would say that I’m bisexual.”

  
Arthur takes a moment to process this. So he’s Charles’s first boyfriend, that’s not a big deal, not in the long run, but it is a little bit of a hurdle. “I can deal with that,” he says after a pause, “but that doesn’t really explain your aversion to anal. It’s not really specific to homosexual relations, you know.”

  
“I wouldn’t say that it’s an aversion, it’s just not something that has ever appealed to me.” Charles takes Arthur’s hand at this point and rubs his thumbs over Arthur’s knuckles and says softly, “but if you’d really like it, then I suppose we might try.”

  
Arthur knows he isn’t in love with Charles, but it’s times like these that he knows why he could be getting there… that is until after they’re done. Arthur officially lost his virginity when he was seventeen to one of his sister’s friends who was home for the summer from college and infinitely more experienced because of it, or so Arthur had thought. It was still a lot of awkward rutting and painful stretching and premature ejaculating, but it had, ultimately, been amazing and all of Arthur’s experiences since then have only built upon that first time. This one does not. Charles is painfully careful and barely involved, far more interested in Arthur’s dick and his nipples than the task at hand. He frowns deeply when he pushes the first finger into Arthur, like he’d rather be doing anything else, and is practically meticulous about stretching him. Charles seems to show a little interest when he accidentally finds Arthur’s prostate and it makes Arthur jerk like a marionette and shout, but that’s the only time. Arthur gets a little hopeful when Charles finally pushes in, because this is the part that’s usually the same for any top. It’s just fucking, plain and simple.

  
Charles gasps something about how tight Arthur is once he’s fully seated and Arthur hopes that he’ll realize that this is a good thing and should be repeated and often, but it doesn’t last. Charles’s thrusts are slow and methodical, and even though Arthur’s on his hands and knees and not facing him, he can feel that Charles is completely detached from the moment. He’s doing this for Arthur’s sake and that alone, and from the feel of it, probably not even enjoying himself. This has none of the emotion of any of their previous encounters, including quickie hand-jobs in the car. Arthur knows that Charles is attracted to him, that Charles appreciates the look of his ass when it is clad in a perfectly tailored suit _and_ when it is clad in nothing at all, but it’s pretty obvious that Charles does not appreciate being _in_ Arthur’s ass.

  
Eventually they both come, after Arthur’s already drifted off planning out his week while Charles is still fucking him. Charles comes inside of him and pulls out almost immediately, eliciting a hiss from Arthur that brings him back to the moment. He flops down on his back as he watches Charles tie off the condom and throw it away, then looks forlornly at his sagging erection. Charles comes back to the bed and purses his lips apologetically and then proceeds to suck Arthur off in a matter of minutes, and that ends up being the best part of the night.

  
There is a silent agreement that they will probably never try that again and when Charles gets up to use the shower, Arthur makes his excuses and heads home feeling dejected and really, _truly_ unsure of his relationship for the first time since it began.

  
…

  
He makes it through the next week and a half without any awkward run-ins or confrontations mainly by being a massive coward and devoting almost all of his time to “the waste of his time”, or driving around chain-smoking while pretending to be at the “waste of his time”. The dynamics of his relationship have been undeniably changed by Sunday’s disastrous taste of afternoon delight, but they both try overly hard not to be awkward, which of course makes it ten times worse. On the one hand- Charles is currently Arthur’s only ally at the firm, but on the other- _worst sex ever…_ But Arthur genuinely doesn’t want to break up with Charles over it and not just because breaking up with people is a giant hassle. He would much rather endure a few moments of discomfort and audial assault in the form of being cussed out than the extended discomfort of perpetuating a relationship that he no longer wants. There are the circumstances of Arthur being at the very bottom of the proverbial ladder in this company and Charles being at the very top, and Arthur is aware of them if not too worried about them. If he breaks up with Charles there is no doubt that things would be awkward, but the man is a professional, he’s not going to jeopardize Arthur’s career out of petty resentment. Arthur’s pretty sure of that.

  
But, Arthur is noticing more and more that Charles is growing increasingly aloof and detached, not so much that it’s blatant, but enough that it hurts. He’s beginning to wonder if Charles would even be adverse to the idea of breaking up. Charles says he’s busy with work or family, busy being the golden son he doesn’t say, but Arthur can guess at the underlying strain of discontent. He starts to wonder if they’ll make it past this, because he wants to, he really does.

  
Unfortunately, Arthur does have to go into the office sometimes and he does so with his heart pounding and wishing he had eyes in the back of his head. He at one point uses a compact mirror that was in his desk for one reason or another, to spy around a hallway corner before speed-walking his way to freedom once he’s sure the coast is clear. He’s acting like an idiot, but the one time he isn’t pretending to be 007 is the one time he gets caught. He has to wonder whether it’s worse to have the interns all think he’s insane or having to actually talk to a real human being face to face.

  
“Arthur!” He _hears_ his name being called, echoing off the walls in the hallway, but he pretends he doesn’t, because he’s frantic and in being frantic, he has no use for logic.

“Arthur, isn’t it?”

  
He has to turn. He cannot pretend he’s hard of hearing because he knows there is a special section of Hell for people who pretend to have disabilities and he doesn’t want to go there. So he has to turn and face the owner of the disembodied British voice that’s been following him.

  
“Mr. Eames,” he says, schooling his face into his best ‘ _I’m a professional person with many important things to do, but I’m not impatient just responsible_ ’ expression. Inside, he’s falling apart, unsure why Aleister Eames, of all people, would need to speak with him. He doesn’t look angry, but Arthur can only think of two reasons why Eames Sr. has tracked him down and neither bode well. The idea that it might be about work since they are in a work place doesn’t even cross his mind, because again _what is logic_.

  
“Call me Al or Aleister if you’re one of those types that can’t shed formality. In exchange, I won’t tell the entire office to call you Artie. Sound like a deal?” Aleister throws his arm around Arthur’s shoulders and actually squeezes and Arthur is so taken aback by the last five seconds that he can’t do anything but go along when Aleister starts guiding him down the hall. “Now Arthur, are you a gambling man?”

  
Aleister whispers this conspiratorially in Arthur’s ear like he’s about to let him in on some big secret and for a moment, all Arthur can think is _why me_. Clearly, Aleister is guiding him into a supply closet or some other type of small, dark hideaway in which no one will hear his screams as the older man turns him into a Eunuch.

  
Arthur swallows hard and tries to keep his voice steady when he answers, “not really.”

  
Aleister smiles and Arthur cringes inwardly. “You strike me as a man who doesn’t like to take a lot of chances, a man who likes a sure thing. But here’s my real question, do you play poker?”

  
“What?”

  
“Poker, boy. Cards, chips, cigars, beer, _money_. Do you play? My son Paddy hosts a regular game but one of our guys just had a baby, had to drop out. We need a fifth. So, do you play?”

  
Arthur cranes his head so that he can get as good a look as possible at Aleister when the man’s arm is still around his shoulders. He’s smiling and his eyes are twinkling and, even with the addition of a few crow’s feet and laugh lines, Arthur is hit, hard in the gut, with how attractive a man he is and how much his sons look like him, Eames especially… somehow. It doesn’t make sense, since they are in fact identical, but Eames somehow radiates the same kind of warmth as Aleister and Charles doesn’t.

  
“Yea, I can play,” he finds himself answering before fully thinking it through. He absolutely does not need to be playing cards with Eames in Eames’s home with Eames’s father and who knows who else. Obviously this is an excellent opportunity to get on a boss’s good side and ruthless, responsible, business-minded Arthur has taken over to accept it, but the boss’s other son’s secret boyfriend Arthur can’t help feeling like Charles is not going to be happy about this at all.

  
“Excellent!” Aleister claps him on the back and tells him where to be Friday night and then Arthur’s left standing in the hallway, hoping against hope that Aleister is as absent-minded as the airs he puts on and forgets this entire encounter ever happened.

  
He doesn’t.

  
In fact, Aleister actively seeks Arthur out on Friday to remind him about that night’s game and where Eames lives and then Aleister winks at him and _pats him on the butt_. He’s pretty sure that’s sexual harassment everywhere but professional football. But that’s exactly how Arthur finds himself spending an hour in BevMo agonizing about what kind of beer to buy. His mother raised him better than to show up at any sort of gathering like this empty-handed, but he has absolutely no clue what kind of people the Eameses’ poker buddies are and when Aleister cornered him earlier in the day, he wasn’t able to find an appropriate time or way to ask. He doesn’t want to show up with the wrong kind, probably anything domestic, and he doesn’t want to show up with British beer only to find out that it’s nothing like what would actually be served in England. He’s got a little of an idea about French beer from the semester he spent in Paris, but, somehow, that doesn’t seem quite right either. In the end he settles on two six packs of Arrogant Bastard, because it tastes like bacon grease and coffee grinds and definitely not like piss water and, considering he’s going to Eames’s house, the name seems fitting.

  
Eames lives in a sweet four bedroom bungalow, not that far from Arthur’s own apartment and Arthur can’t help the little bubble of surprise – because that’s what it is, _not_ appreciation, not at all- in his chest. He stares at his steering wheel for a few seconds, steeling himself, before grabbing the beer and making his way up the walk. The door opens before he can even raise his hand to knock and there’s Eames’s backlit by the glow of a ceiling light and surrounded by a haze of smoke from the cigar in the corner of his mouth. His eyebrows rise halfway up his forehead when he sees Arthur standing there and he reaches up slowly to pull the cigar from between plush lips that are curling into a small smile.

  
“Arthur,” he purrs, obviously not expecting him, but not unhappy either.

  
That original little bubble of surprise blooms into something entirely different, something warmer and fluttery and not entirely unpleasant. The thing is, Arthur can’t be sure if that feeling is taking over his brain because of the way Eames is looking at him or because of the way Eames _looks_. Every time Arthur’s seen him before, Eames has been dressed like a professor from the forties, like Indiana Jones without the whip and the fat-burning adventures. Tonight, though, he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt that’s so threadbare it leaves nothing to the imagination, which is slightly unsettling because Arthur’s imagination had taken the ill-fitting clothes and the large frame and assumed Eames was on the still very attractive end of pudgy. But he’d been wrong, _so wrong_. Eames is ripped. He’s a brick house, which Arthur has always thought was a ridiculous metaphor, _until now_. Eames’s lips are moving, but Arthur’s struck dumb, playing host to a flurry of images- the terrible sex with Charles on Sunday, Eames’s arms, whether it would be possible to physically _climb_ Eames like a tree, whether identical twins have identical cocks.

  
“Mr. Eames,” he croaks out, averting his eyes and shoving the beer into Eames’s chest- his rock _solid_ chest- and squeezing through the limited space between Eames and the doorframe and into the house. He definitely does not turn his head to catch the scent of smoke and sweat on Eames’s skin as he passes, nor do his eyes flutter shut at the heady mixture of it as he walks away.

  
The scene doesn’t get much better after that. Arthur gets all of ten steps before he realizes that he doesn’t know where the poker game is actually set up. He can hear voices, but it would be incredibly rude to just attempt to locate them himself since this isn’t his house. Somehow, in the past few months, his life has become one giant awkward mess, and if he really tries hard to pinpoint the first moment when all sense of decorum began its embarrassing downslide into insanity, he thinks he can safely say it happened the very first time he heard the name Paddy.

  
“Lost, darling?” Arthur feels more than hears Eames at his back and he startles, even though he should have been expecting the man to come up behind him, frozen awkwardly in the middle of Eames’s living room and all. He takes one of the six packs back from Eames for the sake of something to do and forces himself not to snap.  
Arthur’s not sure why the urge to be hostile towards Eames is even there. In truth, the man’s never done a thing to warrant these feelings from him, besides having the gall to wear clothes that fit after spending so much time tricking Arthur into believing he was only reasonably attractive and not the ridiculous Adonis he clearly is. He’s fully aware that these are petulant and irrational thoughts, but he apparently regresses in maturity where Eames is concerned. Eames flusters him, throws him off balance when he’s always been sure-footed, and Arthur doesn’t know what to make of it. No one’s ever made him feel this way, not his first crush or any after, and certainly not Charles.  
Arthur doesn’t like this feeling. He is always certain of himself, always sure what his next step should be, and since he started dating Charles and, subsequently, Eames came into his life, he’s been practically lost. He doesn’t know what to do with these feelings, this _confusion_ , these questions pestering his thoughts even as he desperately tries to quash them.

  
“I’m not _lost_. I just don’t want to be rude.”

  
He chances a glance at Eames’s face, just to gauge how well the other man is seeing through his bullshit, and is caught off-guard by the soft way Eames’s lips are curving up at the corners. Everything’s there that Arthur was expecting- that knowing, haughty look that Eames always seems to be wearing, the one that clearly tells Arthur that he isn’t pulling anything off- but there’s something else tempering the arrogance. It’s almost a fondness, like Eames sees the ire he draws in Arthur and, for some reason, _likes it_. He’s looking at Arthur less like he’s amused and more like he finds Arthur’s mutinying brain waves adorable, but it’s not patronizing. Eames’s smile makes Arthur want to smile, even though he knows that he would be glaring at anybody else. He does manage to glare, but it’s twitchy at best.

 

“You? Rude? _Never_.” Eames laughs and pats Arthur’s shoulder, brushing past him and heading down the hall. “Let me just drop this one in the kitchen then, and you cancarry that one on back, yea? Good of you to bring it, though.”

  
“My mother taught me to never show up to a party empty-handed.”

  
Eames turns and backs through a doorway, watching Arthur with that goofy smirk-smile on his face again before disappearing altogether. Arthur’s heart flutters and he steadfastly puts it down to an arrhythmia - one that he will have to get checked out immediately. He chooses not to wait for Eames to come back out, for fear of his heart stopping entirely, and instead makes his way down the hall on his own, proper etiquette be damned. He’s not sure what type of people he’s expecting to see when he enters the last room at the end of the hall, but he _was_ expecting strangers. Aleister sees him first, smiling that toothy grin identical to his son’s, and waves him in. Arthur’s already stepping into the room, six pack clutched to his chest like a life preserver, when he finally gets a good look at the other two occupants and his heart starts thudding in his ear drums so loudly that the way Eames shouts his name from the down the hall sounds like it’s coming from a million miles away.

  
He looks down the hall to Eames, who looks stricken, and he knows there are accusations beneath the glaze of shock in his own expression. What was probably no more than a few minutes spent in the living room seemed like an eternity to Arthur, an eternity in which Eames had ample time to let him know he was walking into a goddamned trap. Eames mouths ‘I’m sorry’ at him and holds up his hands, and he _looks_ sorry and not like Arthur’s death is imminent if he takes another step into this room, but in that shirt and those jeans and, Oh look, his feet are bare, he also looks like the rugged bad boy love interest of a supernatural heroine on a CW show – the kind that can’t be trusted. At this point, Arthur would like nothing more than to turn around and speed-walk back to his car, but Eames crowds up behind him, a warm hand hovering just over his shoulder blade in some unsure gesture of support or a soon-to-be shove into the proverbial lion’s den. Arthur has no other choice but to wipe his face of shock and betrayal and face the room.

  
Aleister is still smiling at him, looking satisfied. He glances over Arthur’s shoulder at his son and his smile turns a little smug. If he noticed Arthur’s split second of terror, it doesn’t show in his expression. Seated next to him, Miles smiles at Arthur as well, and it seems genuine which leaves Arthur confused because next to _him_ , Mal is decidedly not smiling at all. She’s staring sullenly at the beer bottle whose label she is slowly peeling off with her fingernails and while her eyes flicker up to register Arthur’s entrance, that’s the most he gets. So she’s ignoring him, but she hasn’t told her father or her ‘uncle’, which is good news. Eames’s hand at his back no longer feels so threatening and Arthur allows it to guide him into the room and to one of the empty chairs, conveniently placed next to the other empty chair. Arthur feels flush from the heat given off by Eames’s body when he sits down a little too close, leaving an obvious space between himself and Mal, but no one says a word and Arthur starts to relax. Greetings are exchanged and even Mal, still pouting, looks at him long enough to say a semi-cordial hello.

  
All in all, the night goes well. He wins a few hands and loses a few, but the game is less about making any money than it is just enjoying each other’s company and getting the slightest bit drunk. At one point, Eames and Aleister disappear to smoke somewhere outside and Mal excuses herself to use the ladies’, leaving Arthur and Miles alone, but it ends up being less awkward than Arthur might have feared and more enlightening. Miles very seriously asks Arthur if something has happened between Mal and Dom. There is no insinuation of any wrongdoing on Arthur’s part, no intimation that Miles has any idea that Arthur and Mal are on the rocks at all, despite the obvious distance between them the entire night. Arthur’s cleared even further when Miles all but says he brought Mal out of a misguided attempt to cheer her up. Arthur truthfully admits that he hasn’t heard of any problems and Miles sighs, defeated, clearly bewildered – and not for the first time that Arthur’s seen – by the behavior of his adult daughter. He’d told Arthur once in mock confidence that he secretly wished Mal had never grown past the princess and pony stage because had no idea what to do with her now. Before the conversation can progress, the rest of the party files back in and Miles’s worries are lost in the game, but Arthur can’t help watching Mal and the way her mood never seems to lift, even when she’s forcing a smile. There’s clearly something wrong there and Arthur is in no way so full of himself as to think she’s this down just because of him.

  
They all file out around one a.m., Miles and Mal first. Mal dutifully kisses everyone’s cheek, Arthur’s included, and he doesn’t think he’s seeing things when he notices tears in her eyes as she pulls away. But then his attention is immediately directed back to Aleister and Eames, who were discussing something behind Arthur as he said goodbye to Miles, but have clearly now moved far past the point of discussion and well into the realm of hushed argument. There’s a crafty glint in Aleister’s eye and a look of utter desperation in Eames’s, and Arthur’s just left to watch them, bemused, awkwardly lingering in the yard.

  
“Do not do this to me, pop. You cannot fathom the retribution I shall rain down upon your head if you do not drive yourself home right now.”

  
“You are a terrible son! I have had far too much to drink and a good boy would not want his father navigating the roads in such a condition. Right Arthur? Arthur agrees with me because he is obviously a good son. Aren’t you, Arthur?”

  
Arthur says nothing, bewildered at having been dragged into this at all. It’s hard to tell in the soft light coming through the windows of the house but Arthur thinks Eames might be turning purple.

  
“Don’t think I don’t know that you’re doing this on purpose, old man.”

  
“Paddington,” Aleister chides, “your mother has practically deafened me for all her complaining that you never spend any time with her. That woman carried you and birthed you and wiped your bum for five odd years.”

  
“ _Five_?” Arthur can’t help but snort a little bit, but he’s instantly sobered by the glare Eames levels on him. He still has no idea what’s actually being discussed here, but he can clearly see that Aleister’s accusations against his son are total bull he’s probably pulling from past conversation with the aforementioned wife and mother. Eames still looks a little like a ripened plum, but he’s starting to look chagrined too.

  
Aleister throws him that snaggle-toothed grin that they share and nods, knowing he’s won whatever it is. “So it’s settled, Arthur will be taking me home and you’ll bring my car to me in the morning, around eleven, with those lovely lemon cakes you get in case I get hungry and decide to pop round downstairs at some point.”

  
“Wait, what?”

  
“How am I supposed to get back home tomorrow afternoon them, hmm? If you’re expecting to be too hungover to do anything more than eat lemon cakes?”

  
Aleister waves his hand as if batting away Eames’s worry, both of them still failing to acknowledge Arthur or his gaping mouth. “I do believe there were two of you needing your bums wiped for a while there, and considering that Charles does what his mother tells him to, I’m sure she’d be over the moon to see him too.” Aleister smiles and directs his attention to Arthur, strutting past him and waiting at the passenger door of Arthur’s car, the only other car in front of the house that isn’t his own.  
“I... what?” Arthur manages, watching Aleister go in a befuddled daze. A warm hand curling possessively over his shoulder snaps him back into reality.

  
“This is your fault,” he hears whispered in his ear, hot breath bringing up goose bumps on his neck. He resists the urge to shiver.

  
“I don’t even know what just happened,” he says, also resisting the urge to lean back into Eames’s chest, partially because he’s worried it’s not actually there and he’ll end up on his ass in the driveway, and mostly because Eames is the wrong brother and not his boyfriend and his warm and rock hard torso would not be comfortable at all.  
“You, darling, have just gotten yourself invited to Charlotte Westwood Eames’s monthly bridge party. If you allow my father to continue feigning drunkenness and get into that car with you, I will hold you responsible for my having to attend to a crowd of middle aged and elderly women all day tomorrow with no means of escape. Now, I love my mother, but I do not like bridge. So what will it be, Arthur?”

  
…

  
“You’d better bring the bloody lemon cakes, you turncoat!” Eames shouts despite the early hour as Arthur pulls away from the curb, Aleister waving innocently at his son out the window. The thought of spending an entire day entertaining old ladies is bad, but Arthur has always been good at charming older women, starting with his grandmothers and their bridge clubs, and Aleister is still his boss, so really, no contest. And that’s how he finds himself pulled up to the curb the following morning, gourmet lemon cakes on his passenger seat, and a glowering Eames waiting for him at the bottom of the sloping drive of the Eames’ mansion, nothing mini about it.  
…

  
“You showed,” Eames says, those lush lips pressed into an unhappy, thin line.

  
“I’m a man of my word,” Arthur responds, willing his voice not to shake. He gets out of the car slowly, clutching the lemon cakes in front of his chest like a life preserver.  
“But you never gave me your word, Arthur.”

  
This is true. Arthur didn’t give _this_ Eames his word, but he did give _an_ Eames his word and, despite the way his heart has been pounding and the faint sheen of sweat coating his palms all morning, he’d kept it. Beneath the obvious nerves, there is a heavy layer of guilt at being here, spending time with his boyfriend’s family when his boyfriend doesn’t even know, but the worst part, the part that Arthur can’t even bring himself to think about, is the fact that he _wants_ to be here.

  
The night before, once in the car, Aleister had dropped all pretenses of intoxication, leaning back in the seat and angling his head to the side so that he could watch Arthur with a sharp eye.

  
“Um, sir?” Arthur had kept a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, watching the road with a frightening intensity.

  
“Aleister, Arthur, we’ve been over this.”

  
“Right, of course.”

  
Aleister watched him for a few more blocks, before speaking up suddenly, no slurred words to be heard.

  
“I don’t mean to meddle. It’s really not in my nature, I promise, and I do apologize if I’ve made you at all uncomfortable. We Eameses can be a bit overwhelming. Not everyone is cut from a cloth durable enough to swaddle us properly.”

  
“Sw-swaddle you?”

  
“We’re vulnerable too. Sometimes we need a gentle hand.”

  
Arthur could feel his cheeks reddening and he’d never been so thankful for the dark before. “I’m sorry?”

  
“Look… Arthur, you seem like a good boy – responsible, intelligent, and I know you’ve been a very good friend to Mallorie. You’re quite all she talked about while she was still at uni. I’ve seen you and Charlie together a few times at the office-“

  
For a few, horrible moments Arthur truly believed that this was the point at which his life was going to end, but Aleister didn’t hesitate and if he noticed Arthur’s petrifying fear, he didn’t say anything.

  
“-So I’m sure by now you’ve noticed that Paddy and Charlie are quite different, worlds apart really. Wasn’t always like that. Once they were the kind of twins with their very own language. Used to run around in their skivvies calling after each other in absolute gibberish, but they understood each other. I fear it might have been my fault they were driven apart. I gave them the option to stay in England for their final form and Paddington did, but Charles gave everything up to come out to California with us. He’s a good boy, serious like his mother, but dutiful. We were all surprised, you know, when Paddington finally decided to move out here, Charlie most of all. Neither of them will talk about it, but Charlie deciding to come when Paddy stayed really drove a rift between them.”

  
Arthur listened, unsure where Aleister was going with this, but fully aware there was a point. One thing he had learned about the Eameses so far, there was always something lurking beneath the surface.

  
“Ah, but listen to me ramble on like a doddering old man regretting the decisions he’s made. The point of all this, Arthur, is that I don’t believe Paddy has ever fully recovered from the loss of that relationship with his brother. They were once thick as thieves and now they barely speak. Sometimes I think Paddington came back because he missed Charlie, but Charlie’s been so busy trying to prove that he’s the perfect son and heir, he’ll never notice his brother waiting patiently on the sidelines. It’s probably a terribly intrusive thing of me to do, but Mal’s always had such glowing words for you that I thought you might be good for my boy. He has Mallorie and myself and his mother of course, but one can never have too many friends.”

  
Arthur tapped down his guilt about Mal to choke out, “you want Eames and me to be _friends_?”

  
“Well yes. Arthur, you’re terribly pale, have I upset you?”

  
There was no hint of guilt in Aleister’s look as he watched Arthur, who watched back as best he could without taking his eyes off of the road. He was very clearly a very smart man and he’d played Arthur like a finely tuned violin. He could probably sense how utterly attracted to Eames Arthur was that night, but the words he spoke seemed genuine. He cared for his sons and he was just trying to do right by them, albeit in the most awkward way possible.

  
“No. Ah. Eames invited me to your house tomorrow,” Arthur stammered. It wasn’t a full-on lie.

  
“Excellent! He is going to be so cross with me for manipulating him into going, but it upset his mother so when he went to Africa. She misses him and she’ll just _adore_ you. Probably try to trade you out for Paddy… or me. Truthfully, I intend to spend the day upstairs.” Aleister smiled at him, the same lopsided and toothy grin that made his heart flutter when it came from Eames, and Arthur melted.

  
“Do I have your word that you’ll be here to keep my boy company tomorrow, Arthur?” Aleister asked once they’d pulled into the long and sloping drive of Aleister’s home.

  
“Yes, sir – er – Aleister… Sir,” Arthur answered and he meant every word.

  
…

  
“Okay, so maybe I didn’t give you my _word_. Maybe I came because I couldn't pass up the chance to see something as absurd as watching someone as brutish and ridiculous as you being fawned over by a bunch of old ladies. I mean, can you imagine a tiny old woman cooing over you and pinching _your_ cheeks? I even brought my camera!”  
Eames actually looks affronted, but Arthur catches the twinkle in his eye that makes it clear he’s truly amused.

  
“I am not brutish, thank you.” Eames starts up the drive, hanging back so that he and Arthur can walk side by side. Eames stumbles a little, knocking his shoulder into Arthur’s and then leaving it there, pressing their arms together as they walk.

  
“You’re a thug! You’re a tree trunk with tattoos! I mean, you can’t tell right now because you’re dressed like a freaking bootlegger, but…” Arthur trails off, realizing just how much he’s revealed about what he noticed last night, just how aware of Eames’s body he is now. He can feel himself blushing profusely and tries to hide his face by looking in the other direction at a gazebo off the side of the house. He mentions it and points, but his diversion is weak and when he chances a glance back, Eames is positively glowing. His frown has morphed into a face-splitting grin. Arthur tightens his grip on the cake container and tries to walk ahead.

  
“And here I thought you hardly even noticed me, darling. I’m flattered, truly.”

  
“I insulted you.”

  
“I could hear the loving undertones.”

  
Arthur runs away from the low rumble of Eames’s chuckling, hurrying to the door. He’s reaching out a hand to press the bell when the door swings open and Eames’s laughter abruptly cuts short. He finds himself face to face with a woman straight out of every stereotype of British aristocracy that Arthur has ever been aware of. She’s around the same age as his mom, but where Arthur’s mother uses enough hairspray to cause global warming all on her own to keep her flyaway curls behaving and gets her toes done every other week because she refuses to wear closed toed shoes until the weatherman tells her it's officially winter, this woman’s ice blonde hair is combed back into a perfect chignon that doesn’t look in any danger of falling and her posture is ramrod straight despite the killer-looking heels she’s wearing. She’s awesome and terrifying at the exact same time and Arthur can see Charles reflected in every inch of her perfect appearance.

  
“Paddington.”

  
“Mother.”

  
Mrs. Eames eyes her son and sighs, clearly about as impressed as Arthur with the fit of Eames’s slacks, which is to say, they don’t fit at all. His cream cardigan wouldn’t be bad if it wasn’t stretching for its life across his shoulders. She purses her lips against saying anything disparaging and turns her gaze on Arthur, appraising. Eames immediately steps up and places a hand lightly at the small of Arthur’s back. Arthur tenses, aware of the touch, but doesn’t say a word or move away.

  
“Mum, this is Arthur. He works at Pop’s firm. Arthur, my mum Charlotte.”

  
“Mrs. Eames,” Arthur says, nodding his head and reaching out his hand. Charlotte grasps it and smiles and it’s nothing like Eames’s or his father’s. It’s the one Charles gives him when he’s well and truly happy, which, upon seeing it on Charlotte’s face, makes Arthur think isn’t as often as it used to be. That layer of guilt starts to bubble up, but then Charlotte obviously notices the placement of Eames’s hand and the proximity of their bodies and her smile deepens noticeably, like she’s just caught on to a secret that Arthur isn’t a part of. Suddenly Arthur finds the hand comforting, maybe even more so than the container of cakes he’s still clutching to his chest.

  
“Well come in then,” she says and Arthur has no choice but to follow.

  
After just a few minutes in Charlotte’s presence it becomes clear as day which apple falls from which tree. Charlotte is proper but not cold, displaying no obvious imperfections. Charles clearly takes after his mother in both personality and appearance while Eames favors Aleister, if that can be said of identical twins. If Arthur weren’t so intimately connected to this particular pair, he’s not sure he’d notice all the little differences, but as it is, he thinks that even if Charles and Eames had not made a clear effort to differentiate themselves, he’d be able to tell them apart at a glance.

  
Charlotte raps Eames’s knuckles with a wooden spoon twice when he tries to steal hors d’eouvres from the plate she’s preparing before the guests arrive, and she criticizes his clothes while somehow managing to sound like she’s not complaining. Eames just rolls his eyes at her and calls her ‘Mummy Dearest’ and she glares at him and informs him that she gets his ‘little joke’ and turns to Arthur to lament the fact that her son who ‘abandoned her for the wilds of Africa’ would insinuate that she’s abusive. Arthur is well aware of this trick she’s pulling, regularly reduced to a groveling mess by his own mother and her all-powerful guilt trips, but it still takes the fight out of Eames’s eyes and his shoulders slump. He presses a kiss to Charlotte’s cheek and does whatever she says for the next half an hour, before his gumption rises once again and he begins to get ‘cheeky’ as she calls it.

  
Eames does seem to revert in the presence of his mother, but Arthur truly wonders how many men _don’t_ , and Eames’s behavior only serves to make Arthur look ever more the golden boy with every passing minute so he’s not going to complain. The entire morning goes smoothly, easily passing into afternoon without Arthur even realizing it. He plays bridge like a pro like his grandmothers taught him and, while he’s disappointed that none of the women seem at all interested in pinching Eames’s cheeks, more interested in squeezing his biceps – not that Arthur cares – he’s even more disappointed to find that they are _very_ interested in pinching _his_. He’s subjected to unsettling flashbacks reminding him why he refused to keep going to bridge with his grandmothers and why he refused to smile for all of fifth grade. _The dimples_. But he takes it like a champ and five different women try to set him up with their daughters until Charlotte announces that he’s taken and Arthur feels the blood drain from his face.

  
He tries to stick close by Eames after that, not sure why the presence of the man seems to offer him some comfort. Until Charlotte told everyone that Arthur was in a relationship he hadn’t spared a thought for Charles. He’d been distracted by the secret smiles Eames had been sending his way all morning, making faces when the women weren’t looking, looking smug when they were flirting with him, laughing when they tried to treat Arthur like a toddler, just honestly smiling when he didn’t think even Arthur was paying attention. Now, of course, he feels sick to his stomach because Charlotte never asked about Arthur’s relationship status and Arthur didn’t volunteer the information.

  
It’s as the last of the guests are leaving that the door slams shut and Arthur nearly jumps out of his skin. Charlotte looks dismayed at the loud sound, but her face brightens tenfold when Charles storms into the room. She either doesn’t notice the dark look on his face or she’s choosing to ignore it.

  
“Darling, you came!”

  
Charles goes to his mother, clearly struggling to maintain an aura of calm, and kisses her cheek. He stands and nods to Eames who stiffens nearly imperceptibly beside Arthur. Then Charles’s gaze lands on Arthur and it’s a burning hot pinpoint of anger. Arthur wants to shrink away from it, but he holds himself upright. He’s not going to be the one to make a scene.

  
“Charles, darling, do you know Arthur? He works at father’s firm with you.”

  
“Yes, mother. Arthur and I are _quite_ familiar with each other. I didn’t realize he and Paddy were so close though. How very nice. Actually, Arthur, if you don’t mind there are some work-related issues I might discuss with you seeing as we’re in the same place.”

  
Arthur clears his throat against Charles’s glare and stands. “Of course.”

  
Charlotte looks disappointed but waves them off. Arthur chances a look back at Eames just in time to catch him mouth ‘I’m sorry’. He doesn’t know why but that helps. They walk out to the gazebo that Arthur had noticed on the way in, both silent and stiff until they get there.

  
“What the hell, Arthur?” Charles hisses the second they step into the wooden structure. He pulls out his phone and shoves it in Arthur’s face, too close for Arthur to actually see anything on the screen. “Do you have any idea how it felt to get a message from my _mother_ telling me that I ‘simply must come over and meet Paddy’s wonderful new gent, _Arthur_ ’? And I kept thinking the entire way over here that perhaps it was some other Arthur, but then there was your car. Is this some sort of joke?”

  
“I’m not cheating on you, if that’s what you think.” Arthur’s aware that he’s in the wrong, but he’d be a saint to let that stop him from getting defensive.

  
“Please, Arthur. Of course that’s not what I think. You cheating on me with Paddy is ludicrous. What I _think_ is you blatantly ignored the knowledge that I’m not ready to come out to my parents about our relationship and found yourself a way to ingratiate yourself to my family on your own.”

  
For a moment Arthur’s actually speechless. He was clearly not on the same path of thinking as Charles up until this moment.

  
“Using Paddy to do it too, that’s low. I didn’t realize you were so manipulative.”

  
“Okay, hey! I’m not trying to manipulate anything! Don’t forget that your father is my boss too. He’s the one that keeps inviting me to things. Sue me that I’m not on solid enough ground in this firm to start saying no to the people who sign my paychecks.”

  
“He _keeps_ inviting you? God, Arthur, how much time have you been spending with my family behind my back?”

  
“It was just poker last night and bridge today! It doesn’t have anything to do with you! Fuck, I haven’t even asked you to meet _my family_ and I’ve been out to them for years! I’m not trying to pressure you into anything.”

  
“It certainly doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing, Arthur. If it meant absolutely nothing, then why did you choose to keep me in the dark about it?”

And Arthur doesn’t have an answer for that. The truth is he just didn’t think about Charles or he just didn’t want to. He didn’t want to feel guilty for enjoying himself with Charles’s family, knowing that what he was doing was off-limits. Charles is wrong about Arthur trying to weasel his way in despite knowing that Charles is still in the closet, but he’s right that Arthur knew what he was doing was wrong. The fact is, he likes Eames and he likes being around Eames. Eames makes him feel alive, to be cliché.Charles is wonderful and comfortable, but Arthur doesn’t love him and he’s been thinking for a little while now that he probably never will. Charles, up until this point, has been easy and Arthur thought that’s what he wanted. He thinks now that he was wrong.

  
“Because I knew you’d act like this. You’re so worried about protecting your reputation and keeping your parents proud of you that you’ve started treating me like a dirty little secret. I don’t have the energy to pressure you into introducing me to your family, I’m too busy trying to pressure you into acting like an actual boyfriend most of them time!”

  
It’s a low blow, but Arthur’s on shaky ground and he knows it. There have been times that Charles has behaved like an ass – namely Arthur’s birthday, and they haven’t had any type of sex since their disastrous attempt at anal, but Charles is a dutiful boyfriend, if nothing else. He pays attention to Arthur and he listens to him and he does kiss him in public, but Arthur noticed a long time ago that it only happened if Charles could be sure no one he knew might see them. But Arthur never wanted public displays of affection before, and he’s not a walking gay pride parade himself. He prefers his sexuality not be the first thing people notice about him. It’s just that lately, he’s noticed something missing, something that’s been missing the entire time but has only recently started to bother him.

  
Charles’s eyes spark and Arthur braces himself in case Charles actually decides to hit him, but he doesn’t. “You should go now, Arthur. I’ll make your excuses for you.”

  
There’s that terrible feeling of wanting to take it all back, of wanting to fall at Charles’s feet and beg him to forget that he ever said any of it, say he’s sorry and he was wrong and all of that, but it washes over Arthur like a wave at the beach and before he knows it, he’s stalking down the driveway, not bothering to look back.

  
He gets halfway home, fingers white-knuckled on the wheel, and his phone beeps. He refuses to check it, certain it’s just more crap from Charles, or maybe Charles has calmed down and is trying to apologize. It isn’t like him to lose his head like that. Either way, Arthur doesn’t want to calm down. He wants to feel mad, to feel righteous. He just wishes at a time like this he could still call Mal and rant to her and have her swear like a pirate that Charles was no good for him anyway. Not that they’ve broken up or are even about to… It’s probably best that he can’t call Mal.

  
He doesn’t check his phone until he’s safely in his assigned parking spot and he’s relieved to see the message isn’t from Charles. He resolutely punches down the tingle of excitement that tries to race up his spine at the fact that it’s actually from Eames. That sort of feeling doesn’t seem appropriate at the moment.

  
Eames (2:34 p.m.) _That turned into a right mess, didn’t it?_

  
Me (3:01 p.m.) _Why is your name in my phone?_

  
Eames (3:04 p.m.) _Put it there wen I was nicking ur wallet. I rlly m sorrie to get u in2 trouble w/ Charlie_

  
Me (3:15 p.m.) _It’s not your fault. He’s my boyfriend and to tell you the truth, I didn’t want to think about how he’d feel. I was having too much fun._

  
Arthur stares at the message for ten minutes before he finally hits send, pressing the button before he can erase the whole thing. The reply dings in only seconds later.

  
Eames (3:15 p.m.) _Come by the shop on Monday?_

Arthur’s not wholly sure if this is a good request or a bad one but he says okay anyway.

  
…

  
Monday morning, Arthur is greeted by the sight of two notes on his desk. One is from Dom, informing him of an afternoon meeting with Saito… with a lot of exclamation marks. The second is from Charles, asking Arthur to come to his office as soon he gets in. Arthur spent all of Sunday camped out on his couch, gorging himself on chips and salsa and Velveeta, watching terrible movies on SYFY, all in an effort to make himself feel better about his fight with Charles and hopefully calmer about having to go into the office and possibly see him. He’d been sure it had worked, but once he sees the note, he can feel the anger bubbling up in his chest again. He has a cell phone, which is _on_ and receives both incoming calls _and_ text messages. He basically ignores Dom’s note altogether, pushing it to the side as he marches to Charles’s office in a fit of fury. He doesn’t even bother to knock, sick of playing acquainted coworkers. If Charles was worried about being embarrassed in front of anyone, he should have more class than to leave Arthur a fucking note.

  
“What the _fuck_ ,” he demands, crumpling the note into a ball and chucking it at Charles’s face. He gets some satisfaction out of it bouncing off of Charles’s cheek.

  
“Arthur,” Charles says calmly after clearing his throat.

  
“ _Charles_ ,” Arthur sneers.

  
Charles sighs and bends down to retrieve the note. “Please calm down, Arthur.”

  
“Are you kidding? If you want to talk to me, you can _call_ me like a normal human being would do. But a memo? Did you really think I wouldn’t be insulted by that? Or was that your goal all along?”

  
Charles looks resigned, which only serves to irk Arthur more.

  
“Perhaps the note was not my brightest idea, but truthfully, Arthur, I wasn’t sure you would answer if I called.”

  
“Would you blame me?” Arthur says this under his breath, but loud enough to Charles to hear.

  
“Look, Arthur, dearest, I don’t want to fight. I know we need to discuss some things…”

  
“Oh, maybe just a few things.”

  
“Arthur, _please_ , I am trying to at least _begin_ to remedy this situation between you and I before I leave this afternoon.”

  
Arthur’s jaw drops. Charles looks so sincere that it’s almost impossible for Arthur to believe the words coming out of his mouth.

  
“Before you what this after- _what_?”

  
Charles takes a step forward and holds a hand out like he’s trying to calm a snarling dog. “For a week. A conference in New York.”

  
“And what, you found out about it the same day you have to leave? Don’t bullshit me, Charles.”

  
“No, Arthur, you’re right. I decided on Friday that I’d be attending and then, well, there was Saturday. I’m sure you understand my reluctance to tell you then. I’d really rather not leave you angry.”

  
“And I’m sure if I refuse to calm down, you just won’t go.”

  
“No, I’m going. I think we can both use the space right now, but I really don’t want to leave angry. All couples have spats. Some time to ourselves won’t hurt us.” That placating hand finally lands on Arthur’s arm, pulling him in.

  
What Charles is saying makes sense and Arthur doesn’t want to be in a fight because it’s stressful and he’s sick of being stressed and sick of avoiding everyone.

  
“It’ll be a good thing, dear. Promise.” Charles wraps an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him in closer. It’s not his fault if he melts into it. Charles is warm and he smells good.

  
Maybe this will be good. Maybe Charles will get lonely and he’ll miss Arthur and he’ll stop acting so repressed he makes _Arthur_ look like an emotional mess. He’s thinking those things in the back of his mind, not the front where they should be, as he plays subdued and tucks his body into Charles’s. He’s thinking, as he angles his chin to receive a kiss, that it’ll be easier this way to visit Eames. He’s thinking that a week away from Charles might help get his head in order, might help him figure out _why_ it suddenly bothers him that Charles won’t come out with him, when before it didn’t faze him. Most importantly, it might help him make sense of the fact that he’s thinking of Eames while he’s kissing his brother.

  
…

  
He chain smokes his lunch away, so distracted by Charles and their relationship issues that he forgets about Dom’s note and the meeting with Saito that it promised. He’s confused at first to see Dom loitering at his desk, fidgeting with his shirt cuffs. Dom looks up as Arthur approaches and beams, before his smile fades, and then turns into something bordering on a normal, sane person smile.

  
“Dom,” Arthur says, remembering the meeting. The little knot of tension in his stomach that he thought he’d smoked away returning full force. He was so caught up in being angry with Charles, he hadn’t even thought about this meeting or what it meant.

  
“Arthur, hey. Are you ready? You never got back to me about my note so I wasn’t sure you got it, but then it was here on your desk.”  
“Uh, yea, sorry. I was distracted. So, what’s this about?”

  
Dom looks excited again, talking to Arthur like it hasn’t been weeks since they’ve interacted.

  
“I convinced Saito to bring you on the team, Arthur. No more bullshit mini-mansions. This is big time. This is the project that’s going to make us.”

  
Arthur freezes. He doesn’t know how, but in the last few days he’d forgotten about Dom’s super-secret meetings with Saito and his resentment over being saddled with Dom’s tossed off mini-mansion, probably because the house was his best excuse to avoid the office. But he’d been so resentful at first and now, _finally_ , he’s being brought in. He’s proven himself enough to get a project that could potentially launch his career.

  
“Holy sh…”

  
Dom nods emphatically. “Right? This is our chance.”

  
They start walking again and Dom’s still fidgeting with his shirt. He keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something and then closing it before any words come out. Arthur decides to clear his chest before Dom finally gets the gut to start on whatever spiel he’s working up to.

  
“Look, Dom, I’m sorry about-“

  
“Yea, man, I know. I’m sorry too. I mean, on Mal’s behalf I’m sorry. I should have stopped her, but you know how she gets.”

  
Arthur smiles fondly, because yea, he does.

“Actually, I have something to ask you, but I wasn’t sure if it was still too awkward or not.”

  
“I’m sure it’s cool. Shoot.”

  
Dom takes a deep breath and then jumps into his speech before he can hesitate again.

  
“This is my big chance, it’s _our_ big chance, and I really think I’m going to be able to make something of myself. Mal’s father is one of the greatest architects of this generation and I’m just a peon compared to that. And, God, she’s fantastic. She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met and every day I wake up knowing how hard I’m going to have to strive just to be worthy enough to stand next to her. I think that this project might be my chance to prove that I’m worthy and if we can pull it off… I’m going to propose. She doesn’t know anything about the project. I know she’d be supportive, but I want to do this on my own. I feel like I still need to impress her.”

  
“Holy crap, Dom! That’s fantastic! Do you need me to help you ring shop? Because things may not be the best right now, but every time she dragged me to Tiffany’s is still perfectly imprinted in my mind.”

  
“Well that, definitely, but I, uh, I was also wondering… What you said about Mal sleeping with a professor to get a better grade…?”

  
Suddenly, Arthur feels like the biggest asshole in the universe. He’d been so mad, he’d distanced himself from all of the hurtful things he said and now, in the sober light of day several weeks later, he regrets them all wholeheartedly. Mal put him in a shit position and poked him with a sharp stick until he snapped, but he violated her trust and that’s worse.

  
“Shit, Dom, no. I’m such a jerk. Look it happened, but not exactly the way I insinuated. Remember Cobol?”

  
“That snake? I hated him. He acted like he was God’s gift to women and he only ever talked to the girls during his office hours. Guys could e-mail him and cross their fingers he wrote anything back. He got his tenure revoked right? It was hush-hush, but I heard things.”

  
“He got his tenure revoked for manipulating grades and pressuring his female students. Most of the poor girls didn’t even realize they’d actually earned the grades they got after sleeping with him. He was such a sleaze, he made it seem like he actually cared about them. Shit hit the fan when one of those students and a professor with more clout came forward to the board and reported his behavior.”

  
“Mal?”

  
“Like you said, she’s an amazing woman.”

  
“But! He should have lost more than his tenure! She could have blackballed him from getting a job anywhere ever again! Why didn’t she go public?” Dom looks seriously outraged on his girlfriend’s behalf. Mal wouldn’t like it, but Arthur secretly thinks ‘good for her.’ She deserves someone who loves her this much. He lays his hand on Dom’s shoulder and squeezes.

  
“She hated him with all the conviction you do right now, but she wasn’t going to drag herself through the mud to get back at him, let alone her father’s name and this firm. She got enough girls to come forward to get him kicked out of the university and away from other vulnerable girls, and then she put it behind her and focused on her future. She got angry and then she got even and she doesn’t feel like a victim anymore, and you shouldn’t treat her like one.”

  
“I wouldn’t,” Dom says, determined. “That’s kind of why I couldn’t ask her though. She’s been so sad lately; I didn’t want to make it any worse.”

  
“Makes sense,” Arthur says, shrugging. He feels bad revealing information to Dom that Mal didn’t choose to tell him, but at this point, it’s his duty for dragging it out into the open in the first place. He’s the biggest asshole in the world.

  
They get to Saito’s office and all of the tense feelings of the previous conversation are pushed away as Dom explains the project and the problems they’re having with the building’s conception. Arthur finds himself growing more and more excited as the time passes, nearly bouncing in his seat with energy by the time the meeting is concluded. He shakes hands with Saito and then with Dom, gripping Dom’s hand a moment too long because mentally they’re both jumping up and down and squealing like schoolgirls. This _is_ his chance and he’s bursting at the seams to tell someone and unsurprisingly, only one person comes to mind. Right now, he can’t even care that he should feel guilty about it. He stops at a coffee shop and picks up coffee for himself, tea, and, in a last second decision, one of those pre-packaged tuna salads where all of the ingredients are vacuum sealed separate. Then he grins like an idiot all the way to Forger Antiques.

  
…

  
Nefertiti hops down from a new hiding place before Arthur has even made it fully through the door, crouching neatly on a shelf at eye level with him and staring intently. Arthur jumps nearly a foot and almost drops his coffee, just barely stifling a shout. It’s not a hard decision to give her the tuna that she must somehow know he has before he does anything else.

  
“I find you very disconcerting,” he says once she’s happily devouring the fish and he’s no longer wary of incurring her furry wrath.  She waves her tail once, either in acknowledgement or dismissal.

  
“That you, Arthur?”

  
There’s a flutter in Arthur’s chest when he hears Eames’s voice that he tries to ignore, but it doesn’t go very well. It gets even worse when he turns a corner in the direction that he thinks Eames is and finds the man hefting a side table that, based on the way his biceps are straining – clearly visible because he’s not wearing anything more than a suspiciously thin undershirt – looks to be very heavy. Arthur’s flustered by the sight of Eames’s tattoos that he’d only barely glimpsed before in all their glory against his tanned skin. He isn’t sure if it’s curious or predictable that there are no tan lines. _Of course_ Eames is the type to take his shirt off just as soon as it’s barely appropriate too.

  
“Is this for me? You’re a love, really. I’ve been dealing with inventory all day. My least favorite days.” Eames’s sets the table down with a huff and takes one of the cups from Arthur’s hands.

  
Arthur manages to clear his throat to cover the high pitched whine that wants to escape. “Did you lure me here to do manual labor for you?”

  
“ _Lure_ is a strong word.” Eames smirks at him, leaning in just a bit closer than necessary. Arthur gets that same whiff of smoke and musk and swallows hard.

 

“Are you denying it?”

  
“Ah no. I could use your help.” Eames smiles and Arthur starts to chug his coffee even though it’s still hot and scalds his tongue. “If you wouldn’t mind actually manning the desk for me for a bit? I’ve a truckload coming in around the same time a customer should be coming to pick up a package. It’s all prepared and paid for already. If you could just be in the shop to see he gets it? Once I’ve handled the drop-off, I fully plan to take advantage of you.”

  
Arthur can feel himself blush bright red, the color creeping up from his collar is accompanied by tell-tale warmth. Eames’s eyes widen and he takes a step back, as if he didn’t realize how he’d sounded.

  
“Well that came out quite inappropriately, didn’t it?” Eames is quiet and he starts fiddling with a hangnail on his thumb. “Well, I’ll be outside then. Let me know if anything goes awry, yes? Alright then.”

  
Arthur watches Eames practically speed-walk away until he realizes that his hand is actually burning because he’s crushed his coffee cup in his fist and not because the blush has spread there too. He swears and wipes the worst of it off on his pants for lack of a better alternative. It’s a hard thing to do, they’re one of his best pairs, but they’re also dark so the stains won’t show. He plops down into the chair behind the counter and leans it back onto two legs while he sips at what’s left of his coffee and tries not to overthink what Eames just said to him or the way Eames acted about it. His imagination is trying to convince him that there was something behind it all, but his rational mind denies it, mostly because he’s afraid of the way the former seems to excite him.

  
He looks around for the customer’s package, so he knows what to give the guy when he shows and catches sight of a name scrawled on cardboard.

  
 _Fischer_

  
His heart plummets and he’s still not sure why. But at the same time his curiosity is piqued. Seeing Fischer’s name reminds Arthur that this thing happening between him and Eames, _whatever_ it is, definitely _isn’t_ okay, but Arthur’s only human. He darts a quick glance at the back where Eames disappeared and ducks down behind the counter. The box is big but almost feather light and it tips when Arthur tries to pull it to him. It’s not taped up so he pulls back a corner, just to peak, just to see what it is that has Robert Fischer coming back to Eames’s store if it isn’t Eames himself, and Arthur _hopes_ it isn’t Eames. He’s almost got a look when the bell over the door chimes.

  
“Shit!” He drops the box and shoots up and back into his chair, just barely avoiding knocking it over.

  
“Mr. Levine!”

  
“Mr. Fischer.”

  
“Please, call me Robert. Architecture not paying so well anymore?”

  
Fischer is smiling good-naturedly, but Arthur scowls, not because he’s insulted but because scowling is his unconscious go-to face when he doesn’t understand something. He generally forgets that it tends to unsettle people.

  
“I’m just kidding. It’s just, sitting behind the counter like that? You look like you work here. I know you don’t though. Mr. Cobb told me that you’ve been brought in on the project. I’m very much looking forward to working with you. I’ve heard great things.”

  
Fischer’s too polite with his soothing voice and pretty blue eyes. Arthur forces himself to smile at Fischer’s lame joke. His new dream job is thanks to this man, after all.

  
“Right, of course, sorry. Dom’s got some great ideas already, but I’m thrilled for the opportunity. Really . I’m just doing Eames, uh the owner, a favor.”

  
“Oh, I know Eames. Great guy. That’s great that you’re such good friends with that whole family. Probably makes you dread going to work less, huh?” Fischer actually sounds a little wistful, but he’s still smiling even if it’s a little flat.

  
“Uh, yea. Eames, he’s in the back dealing with a shipment. Did you need me to get him?” Arthur really, really hopes Fischer needs him to go get Eames just so he can get away from this awkward conversation. Dom and Saito had explained pretty thoroughly during the meeting that Dom was the front man, the people pleaser. Arthur’s supposed to dedicate all of his time to designing while Dom deals with Fischer. How is this his life that they get inadvertently proven wrong practically right away?

  
“Actually, I’m just here to pick up a package. I don’t want to bother him if he’s busy. I promise it’s already paid for.”

  
“Oh. Sorry, I think I may need more coffee. It’s right here.” Arthur tries to manage a half-hearted smile. Fischer looks like he wants nothing more than to get his package and get far away from Arthur, so he’s probably not succeeding at the whole smiling thing.

  
“Well, thanks. Tell Eames I really appreciate it and to give me a call if he comes up on anything else.”

  
“I’ll be sure to do that.”

  
“Okay then, thanks again. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you.”

  
Arthur waits until Fischer gets all the way out of the store before letting his head fall onto the desk. This is why he’s behind the scenes and he _likes_ being behind the scenes, because he’s good behind the scenes. He is _not_ good with people, exemplified by the fact that he’s having an illicit friendship affair with his boyfriend’s brother and his best friend isn’t speaking to him. Hopefully, if Fischer says anything, Dom will tell him that Arthur has Asperger’s or something. Once, when they were still in school and newly bffs, Mal called him antisocial, then she finally took Pysch 101 and realized she’d as good as called Arthur a serial killer.

  
He’s just _awkward_. He can be suave when he’s in full control of the situation and has all the facts and he’s even great when that’s taken away and he’s forced to think on his feet as long as there is no one else around throwing in their two cents. When people are involved and he’s taken by surprise, he either comes off as a cold fish or a lunatic if his birthday is used as an example.

  
“Was that Robert?” Arthur tilts his head to the side just enough to see Eames come in through the back door, wiping his forehead with the undershirt that used to be on his body. His groan is not as muffled by the desktop as he’d hoped it would be.

  
Eames goes pink-cheeked, apparently realizing only in that moment that he’s standing in the middle of his shop shirtless and golden and glistening like a living, tattooed version of the Hellenistic statue reproductions he sells - Alexander the Great with ink and tweed. Arthur has been fighting the revelation that he is utterly fucked from the moment the first inkling of the thought entered his head via his groin, but there’s no denying it now. His heart is fluttering and his dick is getting hard. Eames couldn’t pay him to stand up from behind this counter now. Wild horses couldn’t drag him to a standing position. The worst part is, even worse than the fact that Arthur is clearly lusting and _hard_ after his boyfriend’s brother, Arthur has stopped seeing any similarities between Eames and Charles. Arthur looks at Eames and doesn’t see a larger, rougher version of Charles standing there. He sees Eames as Eames and Charles is a distant thought in the back of his mind, on the other side of the country, not the one making Arthur hard. Arthur can’t remember a time that Charles has ever made him this hard this fast, and that’s a problem all on its own. Arthur is attracted to his boyfriend’s brother. Arthur is _more_ attracted to his boyfriend’s brother than he has ever been to his boyfriend. Arthur is _fucked_.

  
He mumbles something even he realizes is unintelligible into the wood, but doesn’t bother to repeat himself. He feels like he might have a fever. He should really go. He can’t stand up so he definitely can’t help Eames lift anything, so his presence here is really unnecessary. But he can’t stand up so he can’t walk out either.

  
“Feeling alright, Arthur?” Eames still hasn’t put his shirt on, despite the fact that this building is no longer a strip club and so being undressed whilst inside of it during operational hours is ridiculously inappropriate. Arthur decides that Eames is trying to give him a heart attack that he probably deserves for being a bad person.

  
“No. I mean, I’m fine.”

 

“Ookay. Did Robert get his package?”

  
 _Package_ , not a word Arthur needs to hear right now.

  
“Yes.”

  
“Darling, I’m having a spot of trouble understanding you when you’re snogging my desk like that.”

  
Arthur lifts his head despite the monumental effort it requires. “Yes, Robert Fischer got his package of air and I managed to mortify myself in front of him within thirty seconds of him entering the store, which might be a new record for me, and you need to put a shirt on _right now_.”

  
Eames looks momentarily startled, but he’s a better actor than Arthur and is able to mask it before Arthur’s even sure it’s there. “Terribly sorry, Arrrthur. I had no idea my chiseled abs would offend you so.”

  
“I hate you with every fiber of my being.” This is a lie that his cock would like very much to refute. It only works to widen Eames’s grin, but he does pull his undershirt back over his torso, so Arthur counts it as a win.

  
“Now what’s this about a package of air? I’m fairly certain that box was quite full this morning.”

  
“Couldn’t be. I lifted it. There’s no way there was something inside it.” Arthur can feel the flush in his cheeks gradually receding. This is good. Direct the conversation away from things that are embarrassing and the embarrassment goes away.

  
“Ah. Not using your imagination as usual. The box was filled with pinwheels. Heavier than air, but I imagine you were exaggerating.”

  
“ _Pinwheels_?”

  
“Yes, darling, pinwheels.” Eames finally moves from the spot where he’d frozen when Arthur started emitting pornographic noises, and perches on the edge of the counter.

Up close, he is still sweaty and golden and he smells musky and Arthur’s cock cheerleads the increased proximity by jumping in his pants. “I’ve never asked why, but Robert collects them and when I opened up shop he started coming to me as a bit of a middleman. I find the really rare, vintage ones for him. Sometimes I even make new ones for him. He gets his toys and I get paid and everyone goes home happy.”

  
“What do you mean, you make them? He pays you to fold paper and put it on a stick for him?”

  
Eames eyes glint. He seems to enjoy being underestimated. Arthur doesn’t understand it. Arthur likes to be estimated at exactly where he deserves, but Eames either feels like he has something to prove or enjoys being a show-off, which would be an obnoxious quality on anyone else.

  
“No, he pays me to create small-scale replicas of famous paintings and put _them_ on a stick. Some of them have come out quite beautiful, if I do say so myself. Actually, let me show you something.”

  
Eames stands and gestures for Arthur to follow him. Arthur hesitates, which makes Eames narrow his eyes.

  
“That was all the invitation you’re going to get, pet. This isn’t something I’ve shown to very many people.”

  
That’s what ultimately gets Arthur going- the chance to be included in a part of Eames that isn’t available to everyone else, a part of him that’s usually covered by a mask. Arthur isn’t going to let this chance to see behind the curtain pass by. He adjusts himself as discretely as possible with Eames watching and stands, careful to keep the counter between them until Eames has turned his back. It’s highly doubtful that Eames isn’t aware of Arthur’s current condition, but he isn’t teasing so Arthur is grateful.  
Eames leads him to a backroom, the door of which is actually hidden behind a large Chinese screen. He lets Arthur in and flips on the light and after Arthur’s eyes adjust, what he sees has his jaw dropping. It’s an art studio of sorts, three easels set up around the room and a drop cloth spread over the floor. There’s a long table against one wall and stretched canvases laid out and standing up, leaning against the easel legs and the table and stacked against the walls and on the floor. There are notebooks scattered everywhere, some open and some closed, filled with half-finished sketches. And everything is covered in paint splatters except for what’s already covered with beautiful paintings. Some Arthur recognizes as recreations, but some are obviously wholly original and they’re amazing.

  
“Holy crap,” he breathes, stepping into the room. “You’re an artist.”

  
“I try to be.”

  
“Oh, don’t start playing humble now. You have to know this is all incredible.”

  
Arthur takes his time with everything out in the open, amazed by Eames’s skill. Not everything is done in the same style, but Eames seems to be a master at all of them. Arthur can draw but not like this. Now he can imagine Eames cutting these paintings up, folding them over, and making pinwheels for Robert Fischer’s collection. Arthur would pay for that without having a weird attachment to the toy.

  
“Eames, I’m impressed.”

  
“Your condescension is, as always, much appreciated, Arthur. Thank you.”

  
“Oh, cut the crap. I’m serious.” Arthur glances over at Eames, prepared to back up his statement with a mock glare, but Eames has a tentative smile on his face and he’s chewing his bottom lip, like maybe he really _didn’t_ believe Arthur’s compliment, like Arthur’s approval _means_ something to him. Arthur isn’t ready to face the meaning behind what that thought does to the rhythm of his heart so he deflects.

  
“So, Fischer likes pinwheels, huh?”

  
“Don’t ask me, mate. I just deliver. He doesn’t have the best relationship with his father; I know that much, probably something there that fuels his fascination with a toy from his childhood. Perhaps his father gave him one once or made one for him out of one of his own drawings.”

  
“Psych degree?”

  
Eames smiles. “On the nose.”

  
“Actually Fischer’s why I was in such a good mood when I got here.”

  
“I could have sworn he’d put you in a bad mood, unless you’re secretly in love with my desk.”

  
“Well, yea, that’s true. The part about the bad mood, not the part about me having sexual urges toward inanimate objects,” Arthur blushes when Eames surreptitiously glances at his crotch and smirks ever so slightly.

  
“I had a meeting with Dom and Saito today. Fischer’s father is practically at death’s door, I guess, and when he dies, Fischer wants to open a community center. He wants to go in a different direction than his father did with the company and he wants to start off by giving back to the city that gave him his start. Anyway, Saito put Dom in charge of designing the building, but he’s stuck and they invited me on to the project to basically get things moving again.”

  
“Arthur! That’s fantastic! Congratulations.” Hearing Eames excited for him gets Arthur excited again and his cheeks are sore from grinning before he even realizes he’s doing it.

  
“I have some ideas, but I’m starting to think it would be good to get some more information on Fischer, personalize the project a bit more. I’m not sure, but I feel like I can use this pinwheel thing somehow.”

  
“Design the building in the shape of a pinwheel?”

  
“I mean, it couldn’t _exactly_ be a pinwheel, because that’s not practical, but something like that. Something that clearly has the pinwheel as its source of inspiration.”

  
“If you think about it, the shape of a pinwheel can be used as a physical manifestation of the process of forming an idea.” Eames walks over to the table and flips open a sketchbook.

  
“You’re gonna have to explain that one to me.”

  
“This is where an imagination would come in handy.” Arthur jabs him lightly in the bicep and Eames doesn’t even flinch, but he does smile, and Arthur does realize how close they’re suddenly standing to each other.

  
Eames starts sketching. “This is the initial inspiration, the inception of the idea. It is the first spark of thought,” he says, drawing a small circle. “But thoughts can’t be contained, they spiral out of control until they’ve become something larger, and they don’t follow a set pattern. One tiny thought can result in a million different ideas, each one with its own train all linking back to the original spark.” Eames draws as he talks, sketching the pinwheel of ideas for Arthur as he’s explaining it. And suddenly, Arthur gets it. Each plane on the pinwheel, like it’s a different color or pattern on the real toy, is a different fully formed idea or fully finished creation, all stemming from the same starting point - the center.

  
“The center of the pinwheel would be the center of the building, the main room, like the lobby or maybe even an auditorium and it could branch off on all sides into different hallways, all leading to different areas of the building. And each one could be for a designated activity, like an art wing and within the wing there would be different rooms for painting, and photography, and clay, like that.”

  
Eames keeps drawing as Arthur get increasingly excited, not complaining when Arthur stops him and tells him to change something, and interjecting his own, mostly helpful, suggestions. The end result is a mess of a sketch, with arrows pointing in different directions and scrawled captions and instructions scattered all over the paper, but Arthur understands it and his chest is practically bursting with pride at this little creation of theirs.

  
“Eames, I could kiss you,” he says when Eames stands and passes the sketches over to him, their fingers brushing, the touch lingering way past necessary, and then, before his rational mind can catch up with the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he does exactly that.

  
It’s barely a split second between Arthur’s lips closing after he’s finished speaking and Arthur’s lips pressing against Eames’s lips. They’re just as soft as they look, but forceful too when they move against his, because Eames isn’t frozen in shock and he isn’t backing away. In fact, Eames is pressing closer to him, is pushing his tongue into Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur’s hard-on is back with a vengeance. It throbs against his zipper and Arthur pulls back, gasping for breath and light-headed. Now that they’re separated, Eames looks equally shaken, but also equally destroyed.

  
“I should. I should go. I should do that,” Arthur mumbles, backing out of the room, the sketches clutched tightly in his hand.

  
Eames doesn’t say anything, just stares after Arthur with wide eyes, looking equal parts wrecked and aghast at his loss of control, exactly how Arthur feels. He bumps a notebook off the table with his hip on his way out and automatically stops to pick it up. The pages flip a little when he only manages to grab it by the front cover, but he’s already put it down and is halfway through the shop when he starts to think he might have recognized the face drawn on them. Nefertiti watches him go, licking her maw, satisfaction coming off of her in waves, nothing to worry about. Lucky bitch.

  
Arthur stays up most of the night turning Eames’s sketches into a workable proposal and he’s tired and has bags under his eyes the next day, but it’s worth it to see the excitement and approval in Dom’s and Saito’s eyes. There’s still weeks, possibly months, of work ahead of them before they’ll have a final set of plans and will be able to begin construction, and even then there will be changes and modifications, but with what Arthur’s got now, it might only be days until they’ll have something they can present to Fischer. That’s the first, and arguably most important hurdle passed. Please the client and, unless there are significant issues when it comes to building, the rest should more or less fall into place.

  
It feels good to know that without him, Dom may have continued struggling, that the whole project may have fallen apart before it ever got off the ground. Dom’s brilliant but easily distracted and too hard on himself _and others_ when things don’t go exactly right. But Arthur doesn’t care if he never gets formal credit for his breakthrough, because _he_ knows what he’s accomplished, and Eames will know and for some reason that pacifies him more than is probably sane. He walks on air for two weeks, keeping his thoughts strictly to work, keeping late nights and early mornings so there’s very little time to think about anything else. If he lets his thoughts wander even a little bit they go straight to Eames and kissing Eames and feeling like an idiot for kissing Eames. But ultimately, he gets to thinking about how well they worked together, how easily they bounced ideas off one another and how quickly their brainstorming created something brilliant. Arthur’s come to terms with the fact that, even with the ugly clothes and mismatched tattoos and the lazy, devil-may-care attitude that Eames projects, Eames is ridiculously attractive. But he’s also incredibly intelligent, _and_ he’s appreciative of Arthur’s intelligence despite the playful jabs that would indicate to the contrary. Arthur just might find that aspect of the man sexier than the fact that he could probably manhandle Arthur any which way he wanted without even breaking a sweat. It isn’t safe for Arthur's sanity to properly weigh the options so as to form a conclusion on that.

  
Keeping busy keeps him from having to truly face Charles as well, which is cowardly, but something that Arthur just can’t bring himself to do yet. Charles called when he got back from New York late Sunday night and other than a few texts here and there, that’s been the most interaction they’ve had since the day he left. Arthur was grateful when Charles insinuated he was too jetlagged to see him right away. There have been a few short lunches in Charles’s office, filled with light conversation and nothing sexual except for the standard peck on the lips when they’re separating. Every kiss only serves to remind Arthur of kissing Eames and the fire in his belly that he doesn’t feel and has never felt when he kisses Charles.

  
He knows things with Charles need to end, like he knows when the milk’s gone bad or that he needs to get a haircut. He _does_ still have feelings for Charles, but he’s able to see that they’re not strong enough to fortify a relationship and not worth clinging to. It's every other Eames that has entered his life over the last few months that are making it hard. He’s worried after their last argument that Charles might not be so passive about things as he'd initially hoped. He’d like to avoid any kind of battle between them that might jeopardize his place at the firm until the Fischer project is complete and he has something to show for himself. He thinks highly enough of Aleister that he doesn’t truly believe he’ll be fired for breaking the man’s closeted son’s heart, but Arthur would always rather be safe than sorry, which brings him back to Eames.  
Eames is not safe. Arthur cannot quite get a grasp on his feelings for Eames, they’re too big and too powerful and too unlike anything he’s ever felt before for him to make a decision based on comparison. He refuses to classify it as anything like love, because he’s not sure that it exists outside of raised hormone levels, but it’s _something_. A relationship with Eames would be something that Arthur’s not sure he’s emotionally equipped to handle. He likes routine and plans and having some semblance of control over the things that happen in his life. Eames is not bringing any of those things to the table, if there even is one. He doesn’t even know that Eames wanted that kiss, that Eames wants _him_. Having anything to do romantically or sexually with Eames is guaranteed to be messy and probably painful. Simply put, not worth it. That doesn’t stop Arthur from wanting though.

  
…

  
He’s looking at his first night truly free from work in almost two weeks, the Friday after Charles gets back from New York and even though he’s dead tired, he’s going a little crazy with the prospect of having nothing to distract himself from his thoughts. He gets home from the office earlier than he has in days and immediately gets into the shower, focusing on what he’s going to eat for dinner as a way of keeping his thoughts from wandering. He contemplates getting a little drunk too, maybe going to the bar to see Ariadne and Yusuf. He hasn’t talked to them in a while. He’s mostly decided on it by the time he gets out and has dried off enough to pull on a pair of sweats, but his plans are derailed by the sound of cupboards being slammed and glass clinking in his kitchen.

  
His first thought is obviously that someone has broken in as he curls his fingers around the handle of the antique straight razor that he may or may not have bought from Eames’s shop when the kid who mans the counter three afternoons a week was there and Arthur knew Eames wasn’t. It’s rusted and too dull to cut tissue paper, but Arthur comforts himself with the knowledge that the burglar doesn’t know that.

  
“Why are your wine glasses all so small?”

  
Arthur drops the blade and his jaw at the same time.

  
“Mal?”

  
Mal appears in the doorway to his kitchen, a bottle in one hand and a big gulp cup bearing Bradley Cooper’s face in the other. She’s wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt that Arthur’s been pondering the location of for a while, and her hair is falling in limp curls around her face where it’s come loose from the haphazard bun she’d pulled it into, and she still looks ridiculously lovely.

  
“This is the only decent cup I was able to find. You will have to make do with your hobbit glasses.”

  
She takes the wine and the cup and curls up into the corner of his couch, barely sparing him a second glance. Arthur stays frozen like a deer in the headlights for another few seconds, before heading into the kitchen for a glass like he's been told. He grabs what cheeses and meats he has and dumps it all onto a plate as a last second thought and goes to sit on the couch next to Mal, not entirely certain where this is going. It’s normal for them to move on from fights this way, but they’ve never fought this badly or this long before.

  
“Hey,” he ventures tentatively, not daring to reach out and touch her. She only thrusts the wine at him without interrupting her staring contest with the blank television screen.

  
“Drink first.” She emphasizes this by taking a long swallow out of her cup, which is filled almost to the top with liquid. “There is vodka in your freezer as well,” she says, still without looking at him.

  
Arthur hesitates; then takes a swig straight from the bottle. He looks at her expectantly, but she only glares at him out of the corners of her eyes.

  
“More.”

  
He gives in and fills his glass, then proceeds to down three fourths of it before she’ll even turn to look at him.

  
“Better,” she says, drinking almost as much in one go. “There are only so many nights you can spend drinking alone before it is unacceptable even if you are French, so now you must drink with me.”

  
“Okay,” he says, because there’s really no argument for that. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  
“Not yet. I wish to be drunker first.”

  
“That’s fair.” He swallows the rest of his wine and refills his glass, but then he can’t hold it back any longer, whether she’s ready to talk or not. “Look, Mal, I’m sorry for what I said at the bar that night. I was mad and drunk, but that doesn’t excuse that it was a dick move and that I’m an asshole.”

  
He expects her to agree with him and maybe punch him in the arm. He doesn’t expect her to hunch over and begin sobbing into her cup.

  
“I think Dom is going to break up with me,” she wails, fat tears, that she must have only just been holding back, rolling down her cheeks.

  
“What? Why?”

  
“Because! He is never available and he ignores my calls. I am always alone because he has no time for me! He doesn’t love me anymore and he is going to leave me!” She throws herself face first into the cushions between them, muffling her sobs. Arthur just barely manages to get the cup away from her before it spills everywhere.

  
“Is that what you’ve been so sad about all this time?”

  
“Of course! And you! I was miserable and I had no one to talk to!” She pushes herself up so that she can yell at him directly. “I know you think I am irrational and that love is not real because you are a soulless android, but I _know_ this time, Arthur. I _love_ him and I want to be with him forever. And he promised! He _promised_ me we were going to grow old together and now he’s going to break up with me and it was all a lie.” Her face is back in the cushion by the time she finishes talking and Arthur doesn’t hesitate this time to start running his hand over her back.

  
“I really am sorry, Mal.”

  
“I _know_ you are. And I am sorry too, but we are neither of us very good at admitting when we are wrong. You make me so angry sometimes, but it is worse without you.” She punches his thigh without any real force and then blinks up at him, her eyelashes clumped together with unshed tears.

  
“Dom asked me about Dr. Cobol - about what I said.”

  
“Is that why he is going to break up with me?” The fight’s already gone out of her and she pushes up just enough to drink her wine without choking.

  
“Dom’s not going to break up with you. He wanted to know the full story behind what I said, but even before I told him, he said it wouldn’t change his opinion of you. I think the real story only reinforced what he already thought.” She looks at him expectantly and he has to smile. “That you’re amazing and strong and there’s not a man in the world good enough for you.”

  
Mal sniffs and pushes a curl behind her ear. “Dom is good enough for me.”

  
“Dom’s the closest anyone’s going to get to it.”

  
“I love him, Arthur.”

  
“Does it feel like the ground is sliding out from under you whenever you see him? Like your heart is going to beat out of your throat? Like the world is ending every second you’re not with him?” He knows he sounds sarcastic, but there’s an honest question in there. Arthur doesn’t know _what_ love is supposed to feel like.

  
“ _No_. It feels like life can throw whatever it wants at me, like I can get on a train and have no idea where it’s going to take me, and it won’t matter as long as we’re together. I know it is love because I know that as long as he is there, I will be okay. I feel like I am the best version of myself that I can be when I am with him, because he challenges me, but he also supports me. Or he did.”

  
Arthur drinks to distract himself from the weird way his chest is twisting. He already knew that he didn’t feel either version of love for Charles, the one he pulled from too many years of reading his sister's romance novels or the one Mal is pushing, which actually sounds kind of good and uncomfortably familiar…

  
“I shouldn’t have tried to force Paddy onto you. It is just, I trust him and I've so wanted for you to have a relationship that does more than just suit you. One that leaves you smiling all of the time. I was wrong to let my feelings for Charles invade on yours. It is not my place to say how love should feel for you. I just… I just _want_ for you, Arthur. That’s all.”

  
Arthur’s throat feels thick. “I don’t love Charles. I do want to feel that way about someone. The way that you feel about Dom, the way I _know_ he feels about you. I don’t feel that way about Charles. I don’t even really _like_ him anymore. That's how I know Dom isn’t going to break up with you, Mal. He adores you. He’d follow you off a cliff just in the hopes he’d reach the ground first and break your fall.”

  
“You are beginning to sound a bit sappy, Arthur.” Mal pretends to narrow her eyes at him in suspicion, but she’s smiling to widely to do it.

  
“We’ve just been busy with this project, and he wants to surprise you, so don’t try to wheedle the details out of me, but just, don’t be sad anymore, okay? You still have Dom and you’ll always have me. You’ll have to throw me from that train you two are on to get rid of me, and I’d come back and haunt you anyway, so it wouldn’t be worth the hassle.”

  
It feels good to make Mal laugh. Arthur hadn’t realized just how much he missed the sound of it.

  
“Would you like to talk about Charles?” She asks after they’ve both calmed down. “I won’t push you, if you don’t want to tell me.”

  
He shrugs, throat still thick like there’s something lodged in it. He’s terrified to put his feelings for Eames into words. Terrified that if he says anything out loud, it’ll become real and he won’t be able to continue on his current path of avoidance.

  
“He isn’t the one. You were right. You could have been better about trying to prove to me that you were right, but you were right.”

  
“I didn’t want to be right, Arthur.”

  
She sounds so sad and suddenly, Arthur remembers what Eames had said that first hung-over day about Mal being in love with being in love, hinting that her actions were inspired by some previous occasion of that not working out well.

  
“I know there must be a reason that you never told me and if you don’t want to tell me now, I’ll understand… It’s just, how were you so sure that Charles wasn’t the right guy?”

  
“Because I have known him all my life, Arthur.” Mal’s eyes are wide and nervous. Arthur can’t believe he didn’t see that she’d been hiding something from him this entire time.

  
“If something happened between the two of you and that’s why you didn’t want me with him, I wouldn’t have pursued him if you’d told me. You know that right? I ignored you because I thought you were just being controlling.”

  
There’s something resembling resignation in her eyes just before she drops them down to the rim of her cup. “But I didn’t want to influence you that way. Perhaps I was being immature, hoping you would just do what I said without any reason to. Charles is not a terrible man and I don’t hate him anymore, though I did for a very long time. We will never be friends and I will never trust him, but he’s not the same boy he was at twenty-one. If I can grow from the girl I was then, so can he.”

  
"Mal, what happened?”

  
Mal sits up, cradling her cup in her lap and not looking at Arthur.

  
“I can see how foolish I was now. Charles was the first boy I ever fell in love with. I’d always been closer to Paddy because he indulged me. He would dress up with me and have tea parties, even when he was well past the age to be coddling a little girl, but when my family and his family moved here, Paddy stayed in England. I was so mad at him, because I felt like his staying had something to do with me, which was silly, but I was fourteen.

  
“But Charles came and he attended the boys’ school brother to mine, and I suppose I latched onto him to ease my own fear. He was handsome and all of the girls had crushes on him. I made friends on my own, but having a connection to him helped. I suppose it was only natural that we would end up dating. We were both popular and comfortable with each other, and by the time he graduated we’d been together two years. He stayed in the area for university and I think that had as much to do with me as it did his parents. He wanted to please them always, but I believe he did love me.

  
“He promised me things, just like Dom has promised me things, but Charles had a vision of his future that he intended to fulfill, and I was only going to be a part of it as long as I did not cause it to vary in any way.”

  
A dawning understanding slowly comes over Arthur. This is beginning to sound all too familiar. “But you did. Cause his plan to vary.”  
Mal looks up at him and nods, biting her lip. “It was the summer before my final year and his third year of university. I missed a period and then I missed another. I took a test and it came back positive.”

  
“So he _dumped_ you?” Arthur wants to call Charles right then and there and tell him he’s a fuckwad, but Mal is shaking her head.

  
“No, he was wonderful. He was. It was when my period finally came and we realized that the test had been a false positive that he ended things. He said that the pregnancy scare had forced him to see things in a different light and that he couldn’t afford for something like that to happen again. He needed to focus on school and his future and I was a distraction. It is all very logical sounding now, but I was heartbroken and not even eighteen. I was so in love with him, I thought I’d die. I went to England to stay with Paddy until school started again because I couldn't bear the thought of having to see Charles. I think that is why I began throwing myself into relationships.”

  
“You could have told me,” Arthur says softly, but in some perverse way, he understands why she didn’t. It’s insane for her to expect him to understand her feelings without any kind of explanation, but they’re both bad at being vulnerable. It’s either why they’re such good friends, or why they shouldn’t be friends at all. Arthur was never very good at psychology. Eames would probably be able to explain it to him.

  
He almost chokes on his wine when that thought crosses his mind, but Mal doesn’t notice.

  
“I don’t want this to be why things end between the two of you,” she says sincerely and Arthur just shakes his head.

  
“Things are complicated…” That’s the best way he can put it, because he can’t explain everything and he can’t bring himself to tell her about Eames, even with the alcohol loosening his tongue. He’s just glad to have her back for when he is ready to face the way he feels… whenever that might be.

  
…

  
Eames isn’t at the shop the next morning. Arthur’s not sure why _he_ is, except that it had seemed like a good idea when he’d woken up that morning. Obviously he needs to talk to Eames, that’s logical and Arthur loves logical things, but what’s terrifying is how much he _wants_ to. He woke up thinking about Eames and the pull of seeing him had been irrationally strong, making Arthur’s heart all nervous and the grin he can’t get rid of all stupid. For some people, these could be considered normal feelings, but Arthur has minor fears that he might be having the longest heart attack ever. Clearly it’s restricting the flow of blood to his brain which is slowly driving him crazy, because that’s the only way he can explain the fact that, when he doesn’t find Eames at the shop, he actually goes to the man’s house.

  
“Oh my God, _oh my God_ , what am I doing?” He lets his forehead drop against the door and mutters into the wood while he tries to work up the nerve to ring the bell.

  
“I’m not quite sure, darling, but you _are_ blocking my door.”

  
“Eames!”

  
“Yes?”

  
The flutters are back in a big way, not helped by the obscenely tight shirt Eames is wearing. Arthur’s gaze locks on to the two tiny bulges that are Eames’s nipples, trying to practically bust through the cotton on each of Eames’s pecks, and he can’t break it. He could just reach forward, _so easily_ and pinch one.

  
“Arthur, are you alright? I think you might be drooling.”

  
It’s inappropriate. Everything about Eames is inappropriate.

  
“I’m sorry?” Eames hefts the grocery bag he’s holding onto his hip, cocking it out in a way that shouldn’t be nearly as attractive on a man as it is, and narrows his eyes, because of course Arthur just called him inappropriate out loud. Of course he did, because his brain has decided to permanently shut down.

  
“I um, I thought we should talk. About Monday. About what happened. Between us.”

  
There’s a brief instant that Eames looks almost disappointed, but his expression becomes shuttered and the moment is gone quicker than it was there.

  
“Well, alright, then. Come inside, would you? I’ve got perishables.”

  
Arthur was definitely hoping for a little more enthusiasm, but he’s already gotten the ball rolling. He can’t stop it now. He follows Eames into the kitchen and just stands there fidgeting while he stares at the way Eames’s muscles move underneath his shirt as he shoves things into the fridge. Arthur coughs, but Eames refuses to look at him even when the bag is empty.

  
“So, Monday? It was, uh-“

  
“Inappropriate, yes. You said that outside.”

  
“Oh, well. That was an accident and I was actually talking about your shirt, but um… Look Eames-“

  
“Arthur,” Eames says, finally turning to look at him. There’s no mischievous glint in his eyes or delightful quirk to his lips. “It shouldn’t have happened, yea? Just a heat of the moment thing. We can forget about it. You’re with my brother and I shouldn’t be getting in the way of that. So don’t worry about it. It didn’t mean anything.”

  
That’s all of his questions answered then. Arthur wasn’t sure Eames was interested in him before and he knows Eames isn’t now. He wishes that felt better than it does. He’s never had his heart broken before, but the hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach and the sharp ache in his chest are what he imagines that might feel like.

  
“Yea, sure, you’re right. Nothing to feel awkward about.” Arthur blurts to save face before he can crumple like a rag doll.

  
“No, of course not,” Eames says softly, casting his eyes down.

  
“Well, um, I wanted to tell you that Dom and Saito loved the idea we came up with. We’re probably going to be ready to present to Fischer in a few weeks. So… thanks. For your help. We made a great team.”

  
He gets a smile out of Eames for that, but it’s weak at best.

  
“Glad to be of help, darling,” Eames says. Arthur’s not sure he likes the way Eames calls him that anymore.

  
He leaves and it’s still awkward, probably more so now, because Arthur’s fairly certain he might be a little bit in love for the first time with someone who is definitely _not_ in love with him. But it’s fine. Arthur is a grown man and like a grown man should in a situation like this, he’s only going to wallow in his depression for the rest of the weekend and then he’s going to pull himself up by the bootstraps and focus on moving forward.

  
As he walks to his car, wishing the whole thing were just a little more dramatic than Eames quietly shutting the door behind him as soon as he turned his back, he makes a mental list of everything he’ll need if he’s going to subsist on ice cream and junk food for the next two days and pulls out his phone. Before he can go to the market, he has one more stop he needs to make.

  
Me: (11:03 a.m.) _Charles, we need to talk_ …

  
…

 

The fact that they don’t is not Arthur’s fault this time. His plans to wallow and watch bad rom-coms for forty eight hours straight get derailed by a call from Dom, and even though he doesn’t forget that he’s going to break up with Charles, it gets pushed to the back-burner to make room for hours of frenzied work. Robert Fischer’s father died that morning. Robert will be officially taking over his father’s empire before the end of the month and Saito wants the groundbreaking ceremony to coincide with the announcement. Arthur doesn’t have the time to break up with Charles and he doesn’t have the motivation to make the time knowing Eames isn’t going to want him any more than he does now even with Charles out of the way.

  
Arthur doesn’t let himself think about either Eames until a week before the party, when he’s ring shopping with Dom during one of the only moments of freedom they’ve allowed themselves in the last several days. The groundbreaking ceremony and Fischer’s announcement are huge accomplishments for the firm. The entire firm and their families have been invited and that means _Eames_ will be there and, now that he’s not thinking about apexes and arches and whatever else, that’s all Arthur can think about. This could very well be the crowning accomplishment of his life and he’s done it at twenty three years old, and all Arthur cares about is the fact that a mismatched, snaggle-toothed, ass of a Brit might be impressed by it. He’s been reduced to a lovesick little boy hoping to get his crush to notice him. His carefully constructed life plan has officially been derailed.

...

  
Officially, Ariadne is Arthur’s plus one to the party, but since Mal gives her second ticket to Yusuf, Arthur is essentially dateless. That’s why he shows up with his very pregnant sister on his arm. His brother-in-law has to work and Morgan has always had a thing about going stag to anything, even a party in her brother’s honor, so it works out well for both of them. Even if he’d wanted to go with Charles, and at this point he absolutely didn’t, there would have been no chance. Maybe at the beginning of their relationship he might have hoped that Charles would eventually be comfortable enough to accompany him to something like this, but he’s well over that delusion by now. Charles is not ever going to come out and since the only thread still holding their relationship together is the fact that Arthur has been too busy to actually break it off, he’s not surprised when Charles shows up with his own, very much not related to him, female date. Offended and seriously pissed off, yes, but not surprised. The fact that when Eames shows, _he_ does come alone, is almost enough to assuage his anger completely, except for the small issue of Arthur being too terrified to talk to him until he’s managed a healthy dose of liquid courage under Morgan’s jealous glare.

  
They end up dancing and Arthur keeps looking over her shoulder for Eames in the crowd of tuxedo-clad men. It shouldn’t be _that_ hard to spot him, considering his waistcoat is purple and puce paisley, which on anyone else would look ridiculous but on Eames it makes Arthur thank God that paisley exists.

  
“Oh my God, Arthur, I can go sit with Mom and Dad if you need to sneak off with your secret boyfriend,” Morgan finally snaps when he cranes his neck to look behind her for the umpteenth time.

  
“What? I don’t have a secret boyfriend.”

  
“Oh please. I’m hormonal, not stupid. If anything, I’m even more attuned to your weirder than normal behavior.”

  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  
“You trying to turn into a giraffe so that you can keep your eye on the hunk in the three piece that you definitely didn’t pick out.”

  
Arthur sighs and buries his face in her shoulder to cover up his blush at being made. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  
“You obviously want him to be. I’ve never seen you go so moony over someone before.“

  
“He’s… He’s pretty amazing.”

  
“So go talk to him! What is your deal?”

  
“It’s complicated, Morgan.”

  
“Complicated like how? He’s obviously gay. He’d have to be gay or a rapper to wear something as flamboyant as that vest with that much confidence. At least you’re not getting all girly over the twin. Paisley is way more your type.”

  
Arthur snaps his head back to look at her. “What do you mean? He’s not my type at all.”

  
“Because he’s not just like you? You need to have more in common with someone than the way you look and dress, Arthur. Having the same size stick up your ass is not a common interest.”

  
“Promise me if I tell you a secret, you won’t go squealing to Mal the second I let you go.”

  
“I am pretty sure you can run faster than I can waddle right now and would be able to stop me before I could do such a thing.”

  
“Pinky swear, Morgan.”

  
“Fine,” she huffs, but interlocks her pinky with Arthur's and kisses the curve of her index finger with a smile anyway.

  
“I think I might be in love with him.”

  
“Oh my God, Arthur!” She hisses and smacks him in the shoulder. “Who is this impostor with feelings and what did he do with my robotic brother?”

  
“Shut up,” he laughs, guiding her off the dance floor and snatching one last flute of champagne for courage.

  
Morgan is absolutely right. Whatever Eames feels, Arthur needs to get one thing off his chest. It might be unfair to put the whole weight of his feelings on Eames when the man’s been nothing but a good friend, but if Arthur doesn’t put himself out there, they will never be anything more than awkwardly friendly. He’s going to find Eames and he’s going to tell him how he feels. He’s already embarrassed, what’s a little more when there’s free alcohol to make him forget afterward? And no matter what Eames says, Arthur is done with Charles and his closet.

  
He finds Eames outside smoking, leaning against a wall and looking far too easy in his own skin.

  
“Mr. Eames,” he says, trying to sound like his heart isn’t beating a million miles a minute.  
Eames looks surprised at first and then his expression melts into something Arthur hopes he isn’t imagining as fond.

  
“Arthur. Congratulations are in order, aren’t they? That building model in there is quite incredible.”

  
“Oh, thank you, but, well… _Fuck it_. Look, Eames, I realize you may not want to hear this, based on the way you cut me off the last time I tried to say it, but I’ve never felt this way about anyone before and I can’t just keep it to myself –“ He can see Eames’s expression darkening but he tries to force himself to keep talking. If Eames ends up punching him it may very well be worth it.

  
“I knew you were a prat, Arthur, but this is really bloody insensitive even for you, don’t you think?”

  
“I, what? Insensitive isn’t exactly what I would call it. Inconvenient maybe. Is it really going to hurt you to just hear me out?”

  
“You don’t think it’s going to hurt me to sit here listening to you wax poetic about my brother, knowing exactly the way I feel about you? Are you completely daft?”

  
“I…,” Arthur starts, then stops, because _what_. “Okay, I’m confused. Did you not notice the very buxom _date_ Charles brought to _my_ party? But you know what? Nevermind. This doesn’t have anything to do with Charles. I’m not talking about _him_. “

  
“You’re not…”

  
Arthur isn’t sure he would categorize Eames’s current expression as hopeful exactly, but it’s giving _him_ hope, so he keeps talking before his liquid courage can run out.

“Eames, I’ve never been in love before, so I can’t say that’s what this is, but I’ve also never met someone I wanted to fall in love with before. I have never felt this way about anyone, _especially_ not Charles, and –“

  
“Arthur, what are you saying?”

  
“If you would shut _up_ and quit interrupting me, I would say it!” Arthur actually stomps his foot and Eames's eyes widen comically in something between astonishment and amusement. “Sorry, that was immature, but seriously? Shut up.”

  
“I-“

  
Arthur loses his patience and before he can lose his nerve, he lunges forward, forcing Eames to be silent with a kiss. He lets himself sink into it for a moment, not trying to make it into anything more but not pulling away until he knows whether Eames is going to push him or pull him closer. When Eames finally relaxes, Arthur leans back, chewing his bottom lip and starting to freak out internally. Eames’s eyes stay glued to where Arthur’s teeth are worrying his skin for a moment, then they suddenly snap up to meet Arthur’s nervous gaze.

  
“It seems I may be the daft one, here.”

  
Arthur smiles and leans into it when Eames reaches up and presses a thumb against his right dimple. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. We all make mistakes.”  
The throaty, delighted laugh he gets for that makes everything worth it.

  
“Tosser,” Eames says softly and it sounds a lot like darling.

  
“I don’t want to put you in a position you don’t want to be in, Mr. Eames, but I would really like to go home with you now.”

  
There’s no mistaking the look in Eames’s eyes at that.

  
…

They almost bring each other down trying to get up the steps and through the front door still connected at the lips. Halfway to the bedroom, Arthur accidentally steps on Nefertiti’s tail and sends her screeching down the hall. He’s almost surprised they’ve made it when his back hits the mattress, his jacket and waistcoat lost in the car or the living room or both. His shirt is half unbuttoned and pulled out of his pants, but his tie is still around his neck and as Eames looms over him, he uses it to pull Arthur to him. Arthur goes up on his elbows and meets Eames halfway, basking in the heat that Eames is giving off with just his undershirt separating his skin from Arthur’s. Eames rests his knee on the mattress, planting it firmly between Arthur’s legs and leaning forward until his thigh is pressing heavily against Arthur’s trapped erection.

  
“Fuck, _Eames_.” Arthur flops back down onto the mattress so that he can run his hands over Eames’s arms, feel the way the muscles bunch beneath his skin, the difference in texture where the skin is tattooed.

  
He slides his hands down Eames’s sides and then up underneath the hem of his undershirt, reveling in Eames’s purrs of satisfaction before pulling the cotton over the other man’s head. There’s moonlight streaming in through Eames’s windows and Arthur can see his nipples pebble in the cool air. It reminds him of what he’d wanted to do to them the first time he’d tried to tell Eames how he felt, and he licks his lips before he surges up to latch onto one.

  
“ _Arthur_ ,” Eames growls when Arthur flicks his tongue against the bud. Arthur’s never had a nipple fascination before, but he could definitely be developing one with the noises Eames’s is making in response to his ministrations.

  
Arthur kisses his way across Eames’s chest, twirling Eames’s wiry chest hair around his tongue. “Will you fuck me?” He whispers against Eames’s other nipple and Eames shudders around him.

  
“How is that even a question?” Eames moans into the pillow above Arthur’s head. “You are ridiculous. How are you even real?” He mumbles into Arthur’s skin as he moves down Arthur’s body, dislodging his nipple from Arthur’s mouth and earning a small whine, like it was just as pleasurable to Arthur to sit there and suckle.  
Arthur laughs and slides his fingers through Eames’s hair, digging the tips into his scalp to earn a pleased hum against his pelvis. “There are better things you could be doing with that mouth.”

  
“Oh, darling, you have no idea,” Eames growls just before Arthur finds himself being bodily flipped onto his stomach, Eames’s fingers deftly working at his fly and sliding the fabric down his thighs before he’s completely aware of what’s happening. He was expecting a blow job, but he can’t voice a complaint when he feels Eames’s fingers pulling his cheeks apart and hot breath against his hole.

  
Eames wraps an arm around his hips and pulls him up onto his knees and Arthur goes pliantly, thighs quivering as Eames starts to lick into him. Tentative flicks of his tongue at first, until Arthur starts to open up, ready for more. Eames runs his palm over Arthur’s cock and balls, too light to do anything but drive Arthur half insane, at the same time as he slowly begins to trace the pad of his thumb around the rim of Arthur’s hole alongside his tongue. Arthur’s sobbing into the bedding, biting so hard at the pillow that he can feel feathers poking his gums before finally, _finally_ Eames slides a finger into him.

 

It’s a blur of sensation after that, the feeling of Eames’s blunt fingers against him and inside of him, callouses dragging against his prostate until he sobs. He tries to beg Eames to fuck him, but he can’t get his lips to form the words and can’t catch any breath to put behind them. Either Eames gets it or he can’t wait either, because just as Arthur thinks he can’t hold on any longer, Eames pulls away, leaving Arthur cold and shivering.

  
“On your back, Arthur. God, I want to see you. Wanna kiss you. Need to.”

  
Arthur all but collapses, his muscles barely more functional than Jell-O. He hardly registers Eames put on the condom or lube himself up, saving all of his attention for the way Eames feels against him and the slow burning ache of being stretched as Eames pushes into him. He bites the meat of Eames's shoulder hard to muffle the moans he can’t help letting out. It’s embarrassing, but it doesn’t take long after Eames gets fully seated inside of him. Arthur’s obviously gone without for too long and with Eames it is so, _so_ good, that just the pressure of Eames’s stomach trapping his cock between their bodies is enough to set him off. It doesn’t take long for Eames to follow, fucking Arthur through his aftershocks. He’s aware of protesting dimly when Eames pulls out and leaves the bed, but then he’s back and impossibly warm and Arthur falls asleep with his head pillowed in the crook of Eames’s arm, sated and happy like he hasn't been in months.

  
…

  
Arthur’s dragged back to consciousness way too early by the sharp trill of his phone. He groans and rolls across the bed in the direction of the noise and doesn’t register the wrongness of it all until he’s pulling his phone from his pants pocket. They’re crumpled on the floor and the bed is bigger than his and it smells like someone else and it smells so good. He takes a moment to curl up like a cat under the covers and just stretch and smile. There’s no doubt in his mind at all that he’s done the right thing.  Sprawled out naked on Eames’s side of the bed where it’s still warm from the other man’s body, Arthur is more than comfortable. He feels like he fits.

 

It’s with great reluctance that he finally takes the call, barely managing to mumble a “hello”.

  
“I have been calling you for ages! Where are you? Mon Diu, Arthur, it is beautiful! You are a genius!”

  
“I’m sorry, what’s happening right now? I haven’t had any coffee yet.”

  
“Last night, after the party, Dominic took me to this wonderful hotel and there was champagne and he proposed! I know you picked out my ring, Arthur. I love him, but Dom does not have the right eye to pick something so perfect.”

  
“Oh man, Mal, I’m so happy for you. I told you it was going to be okay.”

  
“Yes, you did. I will concede this once that you were right, but do not get used to it. Now tell me where you are because I am going to spend all of this morning in bed being engaged and then I expect mimosas and girl talk.”

  
“Not a girl, Mal.”

  
“Semantics, Arthur. Why are you avoiding my question?” It’s at that moment that Arthur makes a terrible decision to put the phone on speaker so he doesn’t have to make the effort to hold it to his head and Eames starts yelling from the kitchen.

  
“I don’t have any goddamned tuna, you infernal feline! Stop squawking at me!”

  
Arthur can’t stifle his giggle quickly enough, but he still hears Mal gasp through the phone.

  
“Arthur… You left the party early last night. I had assumed it was because you were upset that Charles brought a date, but now I am not so sure. Paddy left early too…”

  
“Oh my God, don’t, don’t freak out okay. It’s not a big deal.”

  
“You slept with him! Oh, my love, I will not say I told you so, but I bet you have so many dimples!”

  
“Two, two dimples, Mal, and yes, I’m happy. You were right.”

  
“Four. I have seen your bare backside. Of course I am not thinking about someone else’s backside, Dom. I only have eyes for your backside from now on. Yes, it is a very lovely backside. The loveliest. Arthur. I was speaking of his backside because he has finally gotten his perfectly coifed head out of it. Of course, I mean he had sex with Paddy. You must get used to me being right if this is to be a happy marriage, darling.”

  
“Mal. I will hang up this phone.”

  
“Why are you still even on it, Arthur? There is sex to be had for us both, mimosas can wait.”

  
“Jesus. I love you okay? Tell Dom congrats for me.”

  
“And you tell my Paddy the same. Muah!”

  
“Who was that?” Eames grumbles, flopping back down on the bed just as Arthur ends the call. Arthur’s heart flip flops and he knows he’s grinning like a loon, but the sight of Eames in just an old pair of sweats with bed head and stubble, so at ease in the morning, is probably the best feeling ever.  
He doesn’t stop himself from rolling over Eames and planting a kiss to his jaw. Eames practically purrs and runs a hand up Arthur’s bare back and into his hair, which is as far from perfectly coifed as it gets.

  
“Mmm, good morning to you too. I tried to make breakfast, but the cat wouldn’t get out from under foot. There’s coffee though and toast and there’s butter… somewhere.”

  
“Breakfast can wait,” Arthur murmurs against Eames’s cheek before hungrily claiming those soft lips that feel nothing like his brother’s. “Dom proposed to Mal last night.”

  
“Did he? Well, good for them,” Eames says, understandably distracted by the way Arthur is wriggling on top of him.

  
“Yep, good for them,” Arthur says as he gets busy showing Eames just how good things can be for _them_.  
A few hours later finds Arthur showered and standing at the front door, bracing himself for what he’s about to do. He’s not nervous or broken up about it, but he knows it might get ugly, and that he’s not looking forward to. It won’t be helpful that he’s not going to bother to go home and get a change of clothes, but he wants to get this over with.

  
“So…” Eames says behind him, shoulder resting against the doorframe, the perfect picture of morning-after nonchalance, except for the glaring uncertainty in his eyes.

  
“I’d rather we avoid any more stupid misunderstandings, so I’m just going to speak my mind until you flat out tell me to shut up, deal?”

  
Eames looks half amused and half terrified. “Deal…”

  
“I have to go break up with your brother, for real, and for good because, even though I’m pretty sure he’s already moving on, it’s not fair to you if I leave this hanging and since I would really like to come back here afterwards and not leave again until I absolutely have to, obviously I need to worry about your feelings.”

  
“You’re not much of a romantic, are you, darling?”

  
“No, I’m really not.” Arthur is a little worried this could be a deal breaker, but then Eames smiles and moves forward so that he can cup the back of Arthur’s head and hold him still for a kiss that borders on obscene. Arthur doesn’t budge an inch. “I should have figured it out sooner,” Arthur says once they’ve parted and he’s able to catch his breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t. I’d like the chance to make it up to you.”

  
Eames brushes his lips over Arthur’s once more, so lightly it feels more like a tickle than a kiss, and smiles softly. “You can start by stopping and getting some tuna on your way back so that my cat will stop squawking at me. _Somebody_ ruined her palette.”  
He should look sheepish, but Arthur just beams. “I can do that.”

  
…

  
He doesn’t bother to call first, just knocks on Charles’s door half expecting the bimbo from the night before to open it. He’s not far off. She doesn’t answer the door, but he sees a flash of her hair disappear into the bedroom. Any lingering emotions are immediately snuffed out.

  
“Arthur,” Charles says, surprised and guilty. He doesn’t even let Arthur into the apartment, instead stepping out and closing the door behind him.

  
“We need to talk. I can see you have company so I’ll keep it short. I’m breaking up with you.”

  
“Arthur, dearest, she’s just a friend. She kipped out on the couch last night after the party. I’m not-“  
Arthur raises his hand to cut Charles off. Now that he’s here, he’s not putting this off any longer.

  
“I don’t care. I honestly don’t. I was angry last night and, seriously, I still should be, but certain elements have changed and I just don’t care anymore. I’ll even wish you luck. You don’t have to hide her. I’m sure that will make your life just so much easier.”

  
“Don’t be a prat, Arthur.”

  
“People keep calling me that, and maybe I have been one, but so have you. I honestly want this to be as congenial as possible, Charles. Obviously things were waning between us, because I really didn’t suspect you’d be the type to cheat. Honestly, it seems beneath you, but I’m not that innocent so I’m not going to berate you for it. I just want a clean break so that we can both move on as easily as possible. It’s not going to be simple, but it can be somewhat smooth. If you can’t accept what I’m offering, it doesn’t really matter, but I’m giving you the chance to be as mature as you want everyone to think you are.”

  
“Let’s discuss this, Arthur. I’ll ask my friend to leave and we can sit down and talk like adults.”

  
“No, Charles. I’m done. I really am. I don’t love you and I was never going to and I just wanted to do us both a favor by giving this a black and white ending. That’s all you’re getting from me and, frankly, that’s all you deserve.”

  
Arthur’s not going to back down and he’s not about to have any type of discussion about this. He’s not intimidated at all when Charles’s expression begins to darken like it did that day at his parents’ house.

  
“Is there someone else?”

  
Arthur’s honestly not expecting that question, even after letting it slip that he cheated. Charles never seemed the type to cheat and he also never seemed the type to believe someone would ever cheat on him. He’s far too narcissistic. But Arthur steels his gaze and straightens his shoulders and nods. Because there is and he’s pretty damn certain there always will be.

  
“Yes, and I’m in love with him.”

  
“How long?” Charles is practically foaming at the mouth, but he’s thankfully managing to keep his voice down because of his guest. Arthur would be irritated and insulted by that if he wasn’t so eager to get back to Eames.

  
“Honestly, it’s not really any of your business, Charles. You’ve probably been cheating on me for a lot longer. Probably since New York, huh?” He feels a flash of victory at the guilt in Charles’s eyes. “What you do have a right to know, is that I’m not going anywhere and you’re going to have to get used to seeing me at family functions.”

  
This part Arthur really wasn’t looking forward to, the absolute fury in Charles’s eyes and the betrayal. If Arthur could have done it any other way, he would have. Dumping a guy for his twin, no matter how awful the guy may have been, is just not classy, no matter how you spin it.

  
“For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry. I didn’t want for it to go like this.”

  
“ _Paddy!_ You’re fucking _Paddy_ behind my back?!”

  
“It hasn’t been an ongoing thing, Charles. I tried to make this work with you, I really did. But you wouldn’t give me any ground. You are sequestered so deep in your closet that I couldn’t breathe let alone move. I want a goddamned relationship and you can’t tell me you were ever going to give me that. I understand that you’re mad, but nothing’s going to change about this. I’m in love with your brother and he can give me what you refused to. This is the best thing for everyone.”

  
And that’s how he leaves it. He doesn’t wait for Charles to punch him or yell at him or slam the door in his face. He leaves and Charles doesn’t do any of those things, and it does hurt, in the way old injuries ache on rainy days, but when he thought he’d lost Eames it had been agonizing, so there’s no doubt that he’s made the right decision.  
He feels lighter on his feet as he walks away than he has in months. Now he just has one more stop to make before he can formally get his happily ever after…

  
…

  
The adrenaline rush from dealing with Charles is starting to wear off by the time Arthur gets back to Eames’s house. He knows he’s made the right decision, that’s not at issue, but because he’s no longer under the shadow of his relationship, he’s starting to question how some of the decisions he’s made that maybe weren’t so right might be affecting others. He’s put Eames in a terrible position and even though it hadn’t been his plan necessarily to be so blunt about this new relationship to Charles, that’s what he’s done. Maybe he should have left the decision to tell Charles to Eames, but it’s too late to dwell on it now. He just needs to know that this is what Eames wants too, that Eames will pick him over his brother, that this time blood won’t be thicker than water. He doesn’t think he has to worry about Aleister or Charlotte, since Charlotte blatantly believed he and Eames were already dating and Aleister has been none too subtle in his attempts to bring them together. This is what Eames’s family wants and it’s what Arthur wants, but in the end it has to be about Eames and what Eames wants.

  
His bravado of the morning has turned to ragged nerves by the afternoon when Arthur finally makes his way back to Eames’s front door. He owes it to himself to give this a chance and he definitely owes it to Eames to give him the opportunity to kick Arthur out of his life completely if that’s what he wants. But of course he’s desperately hoping that won’t be the case. He finds himself fidgeting outside of Eames’s house, running a hand through his hair and causing it to fall in his face. He isn’t ready when the door swings open, but he could have been out there into the night before he would have been.

  
“Hi,” Eames says and he looks as nerve-wracked as Arthur feels.

  
“Hi,” Arthur says back, slightly breathless.

  
In that moment all of Arthur’s doubts disappear. This is what he wants. This is absolutely it. Eames is it. Arthur launches himself at Eames, trusting the other man to catch him. Arthur fits in Eames’s arms in a way he never did with Charles. It might be cliché, but Arthur feels supported wrapped up in Eames, safe. He knows this is where he belongs. He presses his lips to Eames’s with such fervor that there is no room for second thoughts. Eames sighs with relief against Arthur’s mouth and holds him tightly like he’s afraid if he lets go, Arthur might disappear in a cloud of smoke. It takes a lot for Arthur to pull back, especially when Eames lets out a sound of protest, but there’s still something he needs to do.

  
“I um, I have something… for you,” he says, remembering what’s in his hand.  
Eames narrows his eyes and arches a brow in confusion, but he lights up when Arthur pulls back enough to hand over the stuffed bear he’d gone to his parents’ house to get. It’s obviously old, but he’s kept it in good condition, high up where Morgan couldn’t reach it until she no longer cared to.

  
“What?” Eames takes the bear from him, stroking his fingers over it reverently.

  
“I just… I want you to know that I’m serious. I’m serious about this, about us. I realize that this is going to sound really hokey and like I stole it from a romantic comedy, but you’re it for me, Eames, and I needed to give you something to symbolize that. I know my words might ring a little bit false since until a few hours ago I was technically still dating your brother, so this is my way of showing you that I’m sincere. That’s an original Paddington Bear. He was my dad’s and then he was mine and now he’s yours.”

  
“ _Arthur_ ,” Eames breathes raising his gaze from the bear to Arthur’s face. His eyes are soft and fond and Arthur’s heart leaps. Eames believes him. “You might drive me mad,” he says softly, but he’s smiling and his eyes are wrinkling at the corners, “but I think we’re going to be just fine, darling.”

  
Arthur can’t do anything but beam at Eames clutching the bear to his heart with one hand, the other gripping Arthur’s tightly. Charles might have been everything Arthur thought he wanted, but Eames is everything he _knows_ he does. It’s not that Eames doesn’t fit into the life plan Arthur had set for himself, it’s that Arthur didn’t know there was a piece missing until he met Eames. Charles reflected Arthur, but Eames completes him.

  
…

  
One year and six months later

  
…

  
Arthur stands at the end of the aisle with his hands clasped so they won’t shake. His tuxedo is crisp and clean and he looks fantastic in it, no point in being modest when it’s true. Morgan had to rush out with Lance when he started to cry just before the ceremony started, but he doesn’t mind. He loves his nephew more than almost anything, even if Morgan did think it was a good idea to keep with the King Arthur-themed names. He can feel Eames’s arm brush his every few moments in silent reassurance and he’s probably never been more thankful for the man. The best thing about him is that Arthur feels like he thinks that every day. Arthur looks at Eames and smiles, dimples standing out in his clean-shaven cheeks.

  
‘ _I love you_ ,’ Eames mouths at him and Arthur responds in kind, skin flushing out of happiness.

  
When the wedding march starts, Arthur’s breath gets caught in his throat. On his other side, Dom stiffens and Arthur squeezes his elbow in support. The doors at the other end of the aisle open and the three of them gasp collectively along with most of the guests. On her father’s arm, Mal is quite possibly the loveliest bride that has ever gotten married. There were a lot of tears shed and curses uttered in the planning of this wedding, but Arthur is nothing if he’s not good at getting things done. Technically he’s the best man, but he fulfilled all of the duties of the maid of honor plus some. Poor Ariadne was more like an assistant maid of honor even though she gets the dress and the title. Arthur can live with that.

  
The beginnings of a baby bump can only just be seen beneath the empire waist of Mal’s dress, but she already has a glow about her that’s more than just that of a bride. Even when she was stressed to the point of pulling her hair out, Mal spent every second from the moment Dom proposed looking forward to this day and the life she and Dom will be starting together. Arthur remembers what she said about Dom that night so long ago, about how she knew he was the one for her. Mal said Dom made her a better person and anyone can see that it’s true just by looking at her. She’s beautiful and joyful and Arthur isn’t worried that he’s losing his best friend. He’s so happy for her and he knows she’s never been happier for him. This is what it feels like to be in love and she was right, it’s the best feeling in the world.  
Mal bawls through the ceremony, barely able to get out her vows through her tears, which in turn makes Dom start to sob and if there’s one thing that has ever gotten Arthur going, it’s the sight of a grown man crying. He manages to keep it to sniffles though, until he sees the fat tears sliding down Eames’s cheeks.

  
“Oh my _God_ ,” he hisses at his partner, but there’s a smile in his voice.

  
“Shut up,” Eames mutters, but he takes Arthur’s hand and squeezes his fingers.

  
They retreat to one of the staging rooms during the cocktail hour to gather themselves before they have to take pictures. Eames is still sniffling and stealthily swiping at an odd tear every now and again and Arthur can’t help but pounce on him the second they get behind closed doors.

  
“Umpf!” Eames catches him because Eames always catches him. It’s second nature now for their arms to come up and around each other at the same time, but it never fails to make Arthur feel fantastic. “I’m not complaining, darling, but what is this for?”

  
“You cried. _Cried_.”

  
“Don’t tease, Arthur, I saw you sniffling.”

  
“I’m not. God, I love you. I never thought a grown man crying could be so sexy, but if anyone could do it, it _would_ be you.” Arthur punctuates his statements with kisses, first to Eames’s lips and then to his cheeks and jaw and neck, all the while trying to get his cummerbund undone and off.

  
Eames chuckles against Arthur’s lips when he kisses them again, one of his large hands curled possessively around Arthur’s hip, the other stroking up and down his back.

“You should see me at the end of Casablanca. How did I miss this particular kink of yours?”

  
“’Snot a kink. _You’re_ a kink. You are my only kink.” Arthur gets his hand down Eames’s pants and sniggers against his neck when Eames lets out a strangled groan.

  
“You’re going to be the death of me, Arthur, I swear it,” he chokes out, gasping for breath whenever Arthur allows him the chance to breathe.

  
“You could return the favor,” Arthur growls against Eames’s lips, grinding his crotch against Eames’s thigh so that he can feel the erection growing there.

  
“Well that won’t do, will it?” Eames uncurls Arthur’s fingers from his rapidly hardening dick and sinks to his knees with it still growing.

  
“ _Yes_ , Eames,” Arthur moans when Eames gets Arthur out of his pants so that he can fit his lips around the head of Arthur’s cock. Arthur can’t help but thread his fingers through Eames’s hair, but he makes sure not to try and guide the man’s head. Eames doesn’t need any help and he doesn’t like being restrained. Arthur would never try to hold him back and he definitely wouldn’t have him any other way.

  
Arthur was already so turned on that’s its only minutes before he’s tugging on Eames’s hair to warn him. Eames hums around Arthur’s cock in response and swallows like a pro when Arthur starts pulsing come down his throat.

  
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Arthur gasps as he sinks boneless to his knees within the circle of Eames’s arms.

  
There’s a flush high in his cheeks and he feels like he could take a nap here on the floor, but Eames is mewling his need in Arthur’s ear. Arthur wraps his long fingers around his boyfriend’s thick cock, using Eames’s own pre-come as lubrication and starts to stroke, pressing his forehead against Eames’s shoulder so that he doesn’t have to concentrate on holding his head up too. He knows Eames is close when he starts to shudder and pant and Arthur opens his eyes to make sure that he’s able to catch all of Eames’s release in his hand. This tuxedo is the nicest bit of clothing that Eames owns and Arthur will be damned if he lets it get stained. He has so many plans for this tuxedo - so many plans that may or may not revolve around Eames wanting his martinis shaken and not stirred.

  
He locks eyes with Eames and licks his palm clean, watching as Eames’s eyes go from glassy to sharp again within an instant. “I find myself sharing the sentiment, love,” Eames breathes, sagging against Arthur.

  
They stay that way until both of their heartbeats have slowed back to a normal pace and then they fix each other’s clothes, each trusting the other with his appearance. They still look pretty debauched even after they’re put back to rights, with their kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks and Eames’s hair mussed beyond salvation, but they wouldn’t be the first couple to steal some afternoon delight for themselves in the aftermath of a wedding. They don’t hear the footsteps outside the door because they’re too busy speaking softly to each other, so everyone is startled when they push the door open and nearly walk straight into Charles and his fiancé, the very same woman he’d been seeing behind Arthur’s back.

  
Arthur clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly, squeezing the life out of Eames’s hand. It’s not like this is the first time they’ve seen each other since everything went down. They’ve worked together and Arthur has been to the Eames house and they’ve managed to keep it civil every time. Charles can’t out what Arthur did without outing himself and Arthur is just fine with pretending like he and Charles are nothing more than somewhat-in-laws in front of other people. The fact that it didn’t Charles more than a few months after they broke up to propose to the girl he’d been cheating on Arthur with didn’t make it any more difficult to forget there was a time when Arthur actually thought Charles had something on Eames.

  
“Charlie,” Eames says. “Tallulah.”

  
Charles glares at them for half a second before breaking out into a fake but polite smile. “Paddy. Arthur. Beautiful wedding. Mother says you had a very heavy hand in it, Arthur. Wonderful work.”

  
“Thanks, er, thank you. We were, ah, looking for my sister’s baby bag. Didn’t find it.”

  
He’s not sure why he feels the need to cover up what they were doing, only that it’s not because he’s ashamed, but because it feels like he’s sullying the experience by throwing it in Charles’s face. He doesn’t need to prove anything to his ex-boyfriend or to himself in regards to his ex-boyfriend. He loves his current boyfriend and that’s all that matters. The look of distaste and mischievous smirk on Charles’s and Tallulah’s respective faces tells him he’s not fooling anyone.

  
“Arthur! Eames!” They’re saved from any further awkward conversation by Ariadne’s exuberant shouts from down the hall. “What are you guys doing? Mal is freaking out. We need to take pictures!” She stomps her tiny foot on the tile so loudly it echoes and has Yusuf cringing by her side before she bodily drags him away, impressive considering she’s about half his size.

  
“Well, we’ll see you at the reception then,” Eames says cheerily, bending at the waist to leave a light kiss on Tallulah’s cheek and clapping his brother on the back.

  
Arthur meets Charles’s eyes for a brief moment and they’re just as beautifully blue as they were when he met them for the first time two years ago, but they aren’t warm and there’s no laughter in them, not like in Eames’s. He looks so much like the man Arthur fell in love with, but he’s not, not even close. They may be brothers and even twins, but they’re not the same person, not by half. Charles isn’t a bad man, but Eames is a great man and Arthur has never regretted his decision, not for a second. Looking into Charles’s hard, unhappy eyes right now, Arthur knows he never will and when he walks away, purposefully bumping his shoulder into Eames’s, he smiles, because he’s pretty sure his life is perfect.

  
FIN


End file.
